


Planets Burn For You

by LetThereBeDestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (at least at the starting point), (spoiler?), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Best Friends, Bisexuality, Boyfriends, Cas is 17, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marriage, More tags to be added, Moving In Together, christmas chapters, dean is 18, despite what the warning says I promise there's a happy ending y'all, long fic, secret relationship (at times)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-01-03 03:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 111,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21173042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetThereBeDestiel/pseuds/LetThereBeDestiel
Summary: When Dean shows up in his class in the middle of junior year, Castiel is not particularly impressed. But as time goes by, he finds in Dean things no one else seems to see: kindness, wit and dark secrets all at the same time.And before he knows it, it's too late. Dean's life and his become entangled in a way neither of them saw coming, and his world becomes upside down in the best - and worst - ways possible.





	1. Same Old Song and Dance

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write this fic the day after it was announced that season 15 would be the end of Supernatural.  
This is the longest fic I've ever written, and the most important one to me.  
I hope you like it.

Jody Mills dumped a thick history book on the teacher’s table and put her palms on the backrest of a chair. “How was everyone’s weekend?”

Castiel jumped in his seat, startled by the sound.

“Kidding. I don’t care. Alright – history.”

It was eight a.m., and he was already so tired he could sleep a horse. And not the cute _I’m falling asleep on the train to picturesque landscape in the background_ kind of tired. It was the ugly kind of tired, the type that makes your limbs heavy and your lids droop over your eyes and you yawn at everyone’s faces, even if it’s Jody Mills, and she’s looking pissed.

Castiel loved Ms. Mills. She was a new teacher – joined the school a few of months ago, in the beginning of the year – so she was an outsider, much like him. And she respected everyone as people and not depending on their GPA.

It wasn’t that the other kids in his class didn’t like him. They were nice enough, and they all had each other’s backs when a scolding teacher was involved. (Even if they beat each other up as soon as the teacher left. It was a weird combination of camaraderie and raging hormones.) He was more of a self-assigned outcast; he didn’t really care about them enough to bother forming friendships, and neither did they care about him.

Ms. Mills meant business. She had just started reading the class about Jewish holidays when someone knocked on the door and opened it.

“Hi, everyone!” It was a girl from the student council, April Kelly. She stood at the entrance with her hands behind her back, like she was hiding something there. “I want to introduce someone to you, so…” She moved farther into the classroom and glanced out the door.

April had a Fun Mom energy, which was weird, because she was seventeen. Behind her, someone stepped inside and stood awkwardly by the door.

“This is Dean.” She said it slow, _Deeeeean_, and sent him a cheery glance, as though to make sure she was correct. “And he’s from…”

“Kansas.”

“Kansas,” she repeated with her index finger in the air, like she was taking a mental note to remember it. “And he’s here for the Teacher’s Assistant Program.”

It was a new program in the school – started when Castiel was a sophomore. Only, last year the TA was an old lady who killed at math and brought everyone brownies, and this guy seemed like he was fresh out of high school and had no idea what he was doing. He looked around the classroom nervously, as if he was overwhelmed by the amount of all twenty-six of them. When someone made eye contact, his expression shifted into something cocky and self-assured.

“Dean was a grade-A student and finished his final exams in junior year. He’s here to help y’all with anything you need.”

So, not even fresh out of high school.

“Take a seat, Dean,” said Ms. Mills, and April left. The boy made his way to the far left of the classroom, by the windows, and touched the back of a chair on the third row. Ms. Mills continued talking about the Festival of Lights.

“That’s Anna’s seat,” said someone to Dean, and he dropped his hand. Naturally, he didn’t know who Anna was. Castiel watched him move to the nearby column and sit down in a vacant chair.

“You might think Hanukkah is about lighting colorful candles and singing before them, but no,” said Ms. Mills. Castiel could not care less. He knew all of this already. In his peripheral vision, Dean shimmied in his chair, side to side, up and down, taking a look at it from this side and then from the other. Turning around in it and rocking the backrest a little. Then the bench itself. It was broken. He stood up.

“Hanukkah is all about the fried food. Jewish holidays are _all about _the food.”

Third try. Dean didn’t even manage to touch the chair before the girl in the other seat – Meg – gave him the death glare, and he turned around and moved on to the next column, settling in the only empty seat left in the room he hadn’t managed to get rejected from. He put a notepad and a pen on the table, and leaned back. Maybe he was trying to forget where he was; most people present in the room were.

“Hi,” he said to the student sitting beside him.

Castiel turned to look at him. Slow. Unimpressed. “Hello.”

Ms. Mills recounted weird-sounding traditional foods in the background. “…Latkes, fried cakes, kneidlach, rugelach…”

Dean fussed around for something, and looked back at Castiel. “Can I look with you? Must’ve forgotten my book.”

Castiel slid his book into the center of the table. He didn’t like sharing. But Dean smiled and leaned in to be able to read without moving the book.

“Thanks.”

“Alright. Yom Kippur,” said Ms. Mills. “Also known as the Day of Atonement. Open on page 152…”

He flipped the pages. Dean leaned forward, and read a scribbled correction on the page.

“Are you Jewish?” He asked, his lips crooked into a half smile, as if it was amusing to him that the book was _wrong_ about something, and that Castiel had the basic knowledge to correct it.

“Um…” Said Castiel. “No.”

At that, Dean huffed out a short, quiet laughter. “I'd think one would know for certain his religious orientation. You don’t really sound sure.”

“My father is drawn to religions,” he answered. “So I know a lot about them.”

“Sounds boring,” said Dean.

For a heartbeat, he hesitated.

“It is.”

Then he tried to focus on his teacher.

“During the holiday, the fasting aren’t allowed to eat, drink, use electricity, write or draw, work, light fires, cut paper or prepare food.” They listened to Ms. Mills talk about the prohibitions of Yom Kippur for about ten seconds before Dean interrupted again.

“These people really know how to party,” he whispered. His expression shifted into a proud smile. Odd, how he seemed to be the only one to enjoy his own jokes. Castiel felt the tightness of frustration in his chest, the kind he felt when someone was breathing obnoxiously loud during an exam and he couldn’t concentrate. He wanted to shush the guy or tell him off or just straight up tell him to shut the heavens up. Only he acknowledged, if begrudgingly, that Dean’s comments were the sole thing keeping him awake right now.

"Isn't this logic kind of faulted?" Asked Dean at something the teacher had just said. “I mean, fasting in order to not think about food? If someone told me, ‘you can’t have this hamburger for the next twenty five hours’, all I’d think about was taking down that burger in one bite.”

He raised his eyebrows at Castiel, and Castiel returned him a puzzled look.

The guy might be an uneducated annoyance, but if he liked burgers, he had to be at least thirty five percent decent.

Castiel usually walked home.

He had a car. He had a _nice_ car. But that was kind of it – he felt rude coming to school every day in a two-years-old Mercedes while some kids had twenty years old models. While some kids didn’t have a car at all.

And he didn’t mind the walk. It didn’t take more than twenty minutes, and it was a stroll through the clean and homey neighborhood of his school and into the classier one where he lived.

He was proper ashamed of his house. Not because it was generally untidy and always smelled faintly of vodka; but because it was big, and fancy. It was two stories tall and had a front yard with an access trail, and a front porch you had to climb up five stairs onto.

He fumbled for his keys (well, his key. And one science pun keychain his brother once gave him:_ “All the good science puns… Argon.”_) and opened the door.

It used to be a house appropriately proportionate to the number of residents in it. There used to be a time when this house was full of life and noise. Castiel could barely picture that time now; his siblings were gone for almost as long as he could remember, and he barely ever spoke to them. Now, it was always too big, always dark, and always quiet.

There was a foyer at the entrance with a stairwell leading upstairs to several bedrooms, most of which were empty and long forgotten now. There were a kitchen and dining room to the right, and a spacious living room to the left.

He took his shoes off by the door and peeked into the living room. As expected: his father on the armchair, unconscious. He wandered into the middle of the room and looked around him. There was a sleeping robe on the floor. An empty glass and a whiskey bottle on the coffee table, with more coffee mugs than he could count around it. An old father wearing a dirty T-shirt and slipping off the armchair slowly, muttering in his sleep. Castiel touched his shoulder.

“Father.”

He shook his arm.

“Wake up.”

He shook harder.

Chuck’s eyelids opened, hanging low over his eyes.

“Get up,” said Castiel. “It’s five thirty.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Chuck. He looked around, squinting.

“Can you do the dishes? I need to study. Midterms next week.”

Chuck squinted at him. “Midterms?”

“It’s March,” he said. He’d long given up on wondering what was happening in his father’s head, or expecting it to be ordinary. Chuck didn’t think like other people. He had frequent headaches that took days or weeks to pass, and he drank to help, but all it did was make him even more forgetful. He also didn’t behave like other people, and with Castiel’s older siblings out of the house, there was no one to really hold him accountable for society’s rules. Castiel tried. But the guilt was too heavy. No matter what he did, the guilt was too heavy. It was somehow on his shoulders to take care of his father, not the other way around, and it was very apparent that he failed.

“I don’t feel so good, kid.”

Castiel looked down at him. He looked back.

“I’ll- I’ll do ‘em tomorrow. You go study.”

But Castiel knew that he wouldn’t. It was the same argument yesterday, and it would be the same tomorrow.

“Come on,” he said, picking up empty mugs from the table. “We can do them together.”

He could study later.

Chuck sighed, as if it was a mission almost out of his abilities – and maybe it was. But he got up slowly, and they made their way into the kitchen.

“So how’s school going?” He asked as Castiel scrubbed plates and handed them for him to wash and dry.

“Alright,” he answered.

“Do you like it?”

“Does it matter?”

“Doesn’t it?” Asked Chuck.

He looked at his father. Chuck smiled at him faintly. Even standing up, Castiel was already taller than him. Parts of his beard were already going a little gray.

He looked back at his plate, and scrubbed. Plates couldn’t grow old. “I’m getting good grades,” was all he answered. And that was a lie, too.

He used to get good grades. He used to feel smart. But there’s no one left to wash the dishes if all you do is study.

They continued washing in silence. When they finished, Castiel grabbed his backpack and headed upstairs. His room was the first door on the left, which generally meant he didn’t have to think of the half-dozen other empty ones down the hall. Chuck typically fell asleep on his armchair with some kind of book about religion on his chest, so Castiel had the second floor more or less to himself. Which meant it was neat. And quiet.

He couldn’t wait to move out.

His room was average in size. He had a bookshelf and a desk, and a George Washington poster his brother Gabriel had given to him as a joke once. (There was nothing funny about fundamental figures in American history. The poster was adequate.)

Meg was the only one from school who had ever seen his room – ninth grade gardening class project – and she said it ‘screams white, straight and privileged’.

So it wasn’t very homey. But he thought it was nice.

He gathered his study books and settled at his desk. Closing his eyes. Focusing.

Focusing on not falling asleep.

No. Focusing on his exam.

He flipped the book open where a photo was stuck between the pages as a bookmark. Bees in the park; they gave him a reason to be happy while studying.

He put the photo aside and stared at the open book.

_The Byzantine Empire’s population in 457 AD was sixteen million. It gets its name from Byzantium, the old name of Constantinople…_

He skipped to the questions.

  1. _Who was Basil II the Bulgar Slayer?_

He squinted at the question, trying to remember any of what he learned in class. Nothing. He stared at the page miserably for a minute before flipping it.

_Judaism: Holidays | Questions:_

  1. _What is the purpose of fasting on Yom Kippur?_

All he remembered was Ms. Mills mouthing meaningless words while he was picturing hamburgers. And Dean beside him. Talking. _"Isn't this logic kind of faulted? I mean, fasting in order to not think about food?”_

He wrote in his notebook: 1. Eliminating all distractions and focusing on atonement.

  1. _What are 5 restrictions during Yom Kippur?_

Dean’s smile. _“These people really know how to party.”_

He wrote down three.

  1. _How long do the Jewish fast during the holiday?_

_“If someone told me, ‘you can’t have this hamburger for the next twenty five hours’, all I’d think about was taking down that burger in one bite.” _

So, maybe the guy wasn't all bad after all.

Or maybe the answer didn't have to do with Dean at all, but with burgers. 

Burgers were always the answer.

The next morning, Dean slumped in a chair beside him in math.

“Hey,” he said.

“Dean.”

“Uh… Person,” said Dean. “I don’t know your name.”

“Castiel.”

“Nice.”

Weirdo.

He didn’t have a book today, either. Castiel slid his book to the center of the table again, and rested his head on his fist. Math was alright. It didn’t philosophize. Either you were right or you were wrong.

Beside him, Dean babbled.

“I hope you don’t mind me sitting with you. It’s just hard to find a decent desk-mate… Oh, you don’t have to share your book. I’ll just listen.” He paused, and looked at Castiel. “Cas?”

He raised his head. “Yes?”

“I said you don’t have to share.”

He left it, anyway. Did employees have to buy their own books, too? He’d never thought of that. Maybe Dean was just particularly irresponsible, which made sense to Castiel, seeing as he was supposed to be a senior.

The teacher started on derivatives, giving them an exercise to work on by themselves. Castiel started writing in his notebook. Dean squinted at the book. Meg raised her hand, and the teacher signaled for Dean to help her, to which one of the two scowled with aversion and the other rose quickly and moved away from Castiel.

He seemed to be doing alright for about ten seconds. Then Meg pointed at her book and said something that seemed to thoroughly confuse him. His eyes swept over the room, and when he caught Castiel’s eyes, he looked at him helplessly. As if there was already some sort of camaraderie between them. As if their desk was a ship, and Castiel was an anchor. Castiel was deliberating on whether to go there and save them both when Dean stood up and headed back to their table.

“Uh… The answer to 12,” he said. “Is it fifteen?”

Castiel skimmed through his notebook. “Eh… No.”

Dean’s forehead creased. “Thirty two point four?”

What? “…No?”

Dean peeked at the question again in Castiel’s book, touching the edges of the page to hold it in place. “Twenty four,” he suggested finally.

“I think so,” said Castiel. Now Dean looked confident, and _he_ was confused.

“Thanks,” Dean said, and walked back to Meg’s table. “It’s twenty four,” he said to her.

“Did you check, or is that what Clarence said?” Castiel heard her say. “Because he’s a little spacey.”

“Spacey just saved your ass,” Dean replied, and Castiel stopped listening.

He wouldn’t have minded being Meg’s friend, if that had been something she wanted. But every time he tried to be friendly – giving her bees, or small weapons, or his sandwich – she mocked him, complained that the knife needed sharpening, or said “thanks” and used his lunch to slap another guy in the face.

From the back of the class, April approached, and Meg and the new TA were quickly forgotten. Castiel hid the side of his face with his palm and pretended to be reading – but she saw him anyway.

“Hey,” she said, resting her knuckles on his table.

“April.” Maybe if he played dead she would leave. But she already saw he was alive. Crap.

“Soooo…” She said. Castiel looked at her, preparing for the worst. Was she about to ask him out? Try to stab him? Torture him for information? Whatever it was, he was determined and ready to mumble his way out of it.

“What’s up?”

“Ceilings,” he said. She stared at him. He stared back. Beside him, Dean slid back into his chair. April glanced at him before turning back to Castiel.

“So, I wanted to ask if maybe you could help me study for finals this week?”

“No,” he replied immediately. Too quick.

“No?” His classmate’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Uhhhh…”

“Didn't you have the thing?” Offered Dean, and they both turned to look at him. 

"The... The thing," said Castiel. "Yes."

April looked at the two of them suspiciously. "What thing?"

“He... promised to show me around the school.”

April’s voice turned deadly dry. “Every day this week?”

“Y-yes.”

“It’s a big school,” said Castiel.

“It is a big school,” Dean repeated. April gave them the stink eye for as long as she could maintain it.

Then she left.

Dean turned around and watched her go. “What just happened?”

“She was trying to seduce me,” Castiel explained. “Thanks for the help.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Dean’s eyebrows furrowed.

“I doubt any good would come out of it,” he answered. He turned back to his notebook.

“It's worth the try, though, right?”

“If we were friends,” replied Castiel. “Maybe. Or if we had some kind of profound bond. April is...” They both turned to look at her: blowing bubblegum and playing with a knife behind the teacher’s back. “Not exactly my type,” Castiel finished.

“Ha. So what is your type?”

He looked at Meg, who was switching a lighter on and off with her feet propped on a table. Then he looked at Dean.

“Someone who wouldn’t mind eating fries in bed wearing sweatpants together?”

_Someone who wouldn’t mind who I am? _He wondered if that would be enough.

Dean laughed. “That’s a mood.”

They sank back into silence. Castiel tried to focus on solving his exercises. Someone clicked the cap of their pen on and off at the back of the class. April popped her gum. Dean shifted in his chair. He was solving the exercises, too. Which meant he mostly squinted and stared at the questions. Either he was very committed to his job, or he wasn’t so good at it.

Anna came up to their table to ask him a question, and Castiel peeked at her notebook.

“You need to divide by minus thirty four,” he said. "You divided by... four."

“Yeah, that,” said Dean. “So you’re like, the smart one,” he said to Castiel when Anna left, smirking at him like being smart was a secret weapon of Castiel’s that he’d just discovered. Castiel replayed in his head the months of torturous work he’d gone through just to keep from failing his classes, and shook his head in silence.

And so, the first chapter in another long and tiring month began. And if change was there - Castiel didn’t notice it at all.


	2. Good Intentions

"Ancient Greece," said Dean, his eyes on his book. It was second-hand and scribbled on, purchased from a college student. It was for the best, since he could use the help – that was Dean’s joke, not Castiel’s. "That's a good era, isn't it?" 

Castiel flipped the pages of his own book apathetically. "Do you always talk this much?" He asked.

Having spent every school day of the past three weeks next to Dean, he knew that he didn't. He might have his moments of unbearable babbling, but other times, he fell into long silences. Castiel had no problem with that. But Dean grinned.

“Yep,” he said. Castiel watched him from the corner of his eye, now. Having just asserted this, Dean fell into one of his silences, focusing on the book. He had this _turn your weaknesses into your strengths _thing, Castiel noticed. Whenever something real seeped out, he would shut it off with a smirk and an arrogant comment.

Dean looked up then, and Castiel’s eyes jumped from his face to their table.

“Heads up,” he muttered. Castiel only realized what he meant when he saw April step into the classroom. She walked towards them and looked at him, her expression determined, opening her mouth–

“I think green is objectively a good color.” Dean glanced sideways at April and, seeing as she stopped at the sound of his voice, continued talking. “Not, like, the best, but it’s a strong one. You know? Orange is also good. It’s warm, but it’s mellow. I think orange might take the cake for me. Other colors are just too complicated, you know? Like pink, with the gender roles, or beige – nobody likes beige. Black is a spooky color…”

April looked away and kept walking.

“Thank you,” said Castiel, his eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t exactly understand why Dean chose babbling as his best defense tactic, and more than that, he didn't understand why it worked. But he wasn't going to complain. “You don’t have to do that, though.”

“Protect you from the females?” Dean grinned. 

He frowned. “I can handle it myself.”

“It just seemed like you’d rather not. Should'a seen the look on your face.”

“Well-“ Yes.

“Except, you’ve been helping me out all month. I kinda owe you.”

“You don’t,” he said flatly and picked up his book, pretending to read. He thought about what Dean had said to him on his first day here: _“It’s worth the try.”_

Maybe this was his problem: he didn’t try hard enough. He wondered how often it happened to Dean for him to give such advice – how many times pretty ginger girls came up to him and tried to seduce him. (or torture him? He still wasn’t sure.) A lot, surely. He seemed like a guy every girl in a hundred-feet radius would automatically fall in love with. Green eyes, a nice tan, freckles, self-assurance – no, feigned self-assurance. He could woo every girl in Castiel’s class into dating him, probably. And the senior girls, too. That would make about forty girls he could woo into dating him, simultaneously. They wouldn’t have minded, Castiel bet. But Dean didn’t seem to care the slightest about girls. Maybe he already had a girlfriend in Kansas. Or maybe he just didn’t care about girls.

Maybe this was Castiel’s problem: he didn’t care enough. Not about girls, or making friendships, or the practice of wooing. And now, look where it got him: sitting next to the second-to-least popular guy in class – only second to Castiel himself.

He closed his book and looked up to see Ms. Mills, already at her desk, taking a thick pile of papers out of her bag.

“Here are last week’s exams for you. I stayed up ‘till four in the morning so that you could get them today, so no complaints. Anna, can you help me hand them out?”

A few moments later, Castiel’s test plopped down on his table, face down. He touched it, carefully dragged it closer, paused. Then he turned it over.

C plus.

“Not the smart one,” he mumbled. Dean glanced at him, then at the exam, and it took a moment before his eyes cleared and he realized which comment of his Castiel was referring to.

“Well-“ he said, and stopped short. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”

“What?”

Dean hesitated. “You almost pass out on your books every day in class. You’re not stupid, man. You’re just… tired.” He shrugged. “I mean, aren’t you?”

Castiel frowned. “Lack of sleep isn’t an excuse for not doing your job right.”

“Why are you not sleeping?”

“It’s midterms this week,” he said. “Everyone is losing sleep.”

Dean sighed. He didn’t say anything for a while. Maybe he was thinking about how stupid it was that students stayed up for hours to study and then got punished for being late or falling asleep in class.

“I could help you study,” he said finally. “If you want.”

“I can study just fine on my own,” said Castiel.

“I know. But like, why not get help if you’ve got it?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

And he wanted to say no. Because he hated getting help. Everyone hated getting help. But, putting his pride aside for a moment, wasn’t Dean right? And if there was someone at all Castiel had to bear the presence of, Dean might have been a good choice. Burger-loving. Not obsessed with him. Wouldn’t insult his knives, or his sandwiches. Not ginger.

“Alright,” he said. “But I don’t like this.”

“No one likes getting help.”

“And if I get all of the answers wrong-“

“I won’t judge you. I promise.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said,

“Thank you.”

After school, they walked down to the second floor, where the library was.

Castiel wanted to like libraries. They were quiet and full of books and on paper, that sounded ideal. But in practice all the books were so used they left his fingers black with grime, and the fluorescent lights weren’t exactly serene, and whenever there were other people in sight he felt like he was doing something wrong, standing in the wrong spot or taking someone’s chair.

There were two floors to the SPN High library (the acronym stood for Stark, Parker & Negasonic Teenage Warhead): one for studying, with big tables and plastic chairs (the fancy kind) and rows of shelves along the walls, filled with study books and novels the school deemed teen-appropriate. The other, below it, was a proper library with columns of high shelves and a reading corner with stiff armchairs. It was mostly for the students and parents with small kids, but occasionally there was an old person sitting about.

Dean looked around like everything was magic. Castiel eyed him.

“My last school’s library wasn’t even a fourth of this in size,” he explained.

Right. He was starting to forget Dean hadn’t always been with them – that he’d arrived less than a month ago, and that Castiel – or anyone, really – barely knew anything about his life before SPN High. That was how convenient it was that the angle he sat in hid Castiel from most students he was trying to avoid eye contact with, like Meg and April. That was how convenient his babbling got when it was keeping Castiel awake during class.

“You must have been a really good student to be able to skip senior year and work as a TA,” said Castiel. He settled in a corner table, and Dean sat beside him.

“Uhh,” Dean said. “Yeah.”

So, he supposed he would continue to know nothing about Dean’s past. That was alright. They weren’t even really friends. People didn’t get into his heart this easily; they had to earn it. And he felt that it was the same way for Dean, too.

“So,” Dean said. “Which subject do you have the most trouble with?”

“All of them,” said Castiel.

“Okay.”

He snapped the cap of his pen on and off. Dean tapped his fingers on the table.

“You know,” he said after a moment. “School was really hard for me. I was under a lot of pressure, and family-wise things were just a mess and… When I sat down and tried to study, it wasn’t that I didn’t understand the material. The circumstances just made it impossible for me to study. I couldn’t focus. I had so much on my mind, there was no space for any more information. I was too distracted to study, and it made me feel dumb.” He looked at Castiel. “Do you think, maybe… That’s something you can relate to?”

Castiel’s lips twisted into a smile for a split second. “Did you just make that up to make me feel better?”

Dean laughed shortly. “I wish, man.”

He sighed. “History is the worst. And civics. Anything that’s a matter of memorizing rather than working the brain.”

Dean smiled, and opened his history book. Without another word, he started asking Castiel questions. It didn’t really feel like tutoring; it didn’t feel like Dean was any different than him. It almost felt like they were just two friends, studying together. Only Dean wasn't a friend, nor a student. 

Dean’s tone changed whenever he found something interesting that he didn’t know before. Sometimes he stuttered at ancient Greek names he couldn't pronounce. And all the while, his smile would resurface upon random things Castiel said, which was confusing, because it wasn’t mocking or self-assured or even humorous. All he could pick up from that smile, was that it was genuine.

He’d never really had a friend before.

That was the source behind the smile, Castiel found some days later. He didn’t even have to fish that out of him; Dean just told him, one afternoon as they were walking out from Castiel’s gym class – which Dean happily gave up on in favor of helping some freshmen with their homework in the library. They were climbing up the stairs, and Dean said:

“I know you’re not big on the whole _besties forever_ idea, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to who cares more about the increase in death rates due to car crashes than which sports team won in the game last night. I’ve just never really had a friend before, I guess. Like, not _really_. You know?”

Here was another misconception he’d had about Dean: he didn’t care about sports teams. Injustice really bothered him. He had a hard time with the concept that people who didn’t deserve to die died. Castiel didn’t tell him _sometimes sacrifices have to be made_, but he thought it.

“Oh,” Dean said, skipping up the last stair to the second floor. Right behind him, Castiel read the message printed on an A4 paper and taped to the door: _Due to a lecture on Homo erectus and the Pleistocene geological_ _epoch on Tuesday, March 26th, the library will close to the public at three p.m._

“Sorry, buddy.” he turned to Castiel with a smile. “We could always go in and listen. Homo erectus and the Pleistocene geological epoch sounds… fascinating.”

Castiel fought back his smile. “My history exam is tomorrow,” he said, sending a hand to touch Dean’s arm, and stopping himself short. “I hate to say it, Dean, but-“

With the hint of a grin: “But?”

“But your tutoring actually works. If you can call it tutoring.”

“Sure you can,” Dean said, insulted.

“Humming Led Zepplin songs while I recite the periodic table doesn’t count as tutoring,” he shot back. “It counts as an annoyance.”

“Fine,” said Dean. “Get to your point.”

He stepped closer, and looked into Dean’s eyes. “I need your help.”

“Okay. We can go to your place.”

“No,” he answered quickly, trying to come up with an excuse. He didn’t need Dean to see his big house, or his fancy car, or his father passed out on the living room armchair. It was also a little too soon for the George Washington poster conversation, he figured. He wasn’t sure quite how desperate Dean was about making his friend, but the Washington poster certainly wasn’t going to give him any Cool Guy points.

“You don’t need to explain,” said Dean, and there was understanding in his eyes. “Come on. We can go to my house.”

He followed Dean to the parking lot. It was late, and the lot was nearly empty. They walked towards an old, black, very shiny Chevrolet.

“That’s your car?” Asked Castiel skeptically.

“Yes,” said Dean, his tone defensive. “And she’s glorious.”

In her – _her?_ – own way, she was. And she was so clean, Castiel could see his reflection on her.

“How old is it? A hundred?”

“Fifty two,” Dean answered begrudgingly, and Castiel almost snorted at how reasonable his exaggerated guess turned out to be.

“How is it so spotless?” He asked. “So many years and not one scratch…”

“Oh, she’s taken a lot of scratches,” replied Dean. “Dents, smashes, crashes, hits… I just fix ‘er a lot.”

“Yourself?” Asked Castiel.

“Yeah. Well – I’ve had some great teachers. Get in.”

Inside the car was warm, and again, oddly clean. But it had initials etched into the dashboard and the glove compartment was open, with old papers and dozens of cassettes practically spilling out of it (Dean leaned in to close it when they entered). He’d never been in a car that felt – or smelled – like home, before.

He watched the road as Dean drove quietly. It was maybe six or seven minutes before the view changed, the houses shrinking down and then turning into old, short buildings, the cars old and tired, and the pavement turned from bricks to gray cement. Dean pulled up in an empty parking spot, and they got out of the car. He eyed Castiel – expecting him to look around in shock, maybe, or wear a horrified expression, but this was hardly the first neighborhood he’d visited that wasn’t filthy rich. Some of his siblings were worse off. He himself was probably going to end up in a one-bedroom with a moldy shower one day, and he was more than fine with that, so long as he didn’t have to take care of an old unconscious drunk.

That sounded selfish. He knew living alone must be hard, but in some senses, it might just be easier on his heart.

“Fair warning,” said Dean as they walked up the stairs. “It’s kind of a dump.” He glanced at Castiel and, seeing that he wasn’t deterred, added, “Like, Shrek’s swamp level.”

"I don't know what that is."

They got to the third floor and Dean unlocked the door. It didn’t have a sign.

The inside was chilly. Dean went to close the window and then stood in the middle of the room, watching helplessly as Castiel took it in.

There was one room. The whole apartment – it was one room. To his right there was a large bed, beyond it a big window next to a small closet. Further into the room, by another window, was a tiny kitchen, and between that and the bed there was just enough room for a dining table without the place looking too cramped. The floor was wooden. Along the left wall was a shelf cabinet with books, records and CDs. No pictures on the walls, but one facing down on the nightstand. In the corner between the kitchen and the left wall was a door to the bathroom.

“It’s nice,” said Castiel, looking around. Dean barked out a laugh.

“You don’t have to pretend. I appreciate the sentiment, though.”

He dropped his bag by the door and looked at the shelves. There was another picture – framed, between Aerosmith and Metallica records. He recognized Dean, though he was younger, with a ginger girl and an even younger boy. Standing in a park with his arms around them, smiling his genuine smile.

He wasn’t pretending.

“You live alone?” He asked.

“Yeah. My father died last year, so Sammy and I are on our own now.”

He’d mentioned his little brother a few times before, and Castiel realized that was probably the boy beside him in the picture.

“He's in a boarding school,” Dean continued. “He doesn't belong in this dump. But I have to provide for him. That's why I had to...” He stopped, looking away. Castiel hoped he would continue, reveal another part of the mystery his past seemed to be, but he didn’t. Castiel didn’t push.

“How long have you been here?” He asked, hoping the change in subject would be enough to erase the troubled furrow between Dean’s eyebrows.

“Uh… Six months? I moved in at the beginning of the school year. Was hoping to find a full-time job sooner.”

“So for five months you just…”

“Juggled between three minimum wage part-time jobs.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They sat down at the kitchen table with their history books.

“Okay,” said Dean. “How do you wanna play this? We have…” He glanced at his phone, then mumbled to himself, counting with his fingers. “Fifteen hours until the test starts.”

“Read the entire book and see where we are at around four a.m.?”

Dean nodded. “Read the entire book and see where we are at around four a.m.”

Castiel smiled. “If you could just ask me some questions, that would be helpful.”

So Dean quizzed him, sitting sideways on his chair, facing Castiel with his book tilted so that its contents were hidden. And it wasn’t long before Castiel raised a point he didn’t have the answer to and he turned to his phone and googled it.

“Check this out,” he said, his lips pressed together in a spectacularly unsuccessful effort to hide his smile. “The Greeks invented flipping someone off.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s right here.” Dean leaned in and showed him his phone. “_The gesture of flipping someone off with your middle finger dates back to ancient Greece_. Can you imagine some old Greek dude just like… Walkin’ down the street, like, ‘hey, fuck off. Yeah, you. Stop fucking stealin’ my wheat.’ And the other dude would just straight up flip him off like he’s some twenty-first century teenager with a Starbucks cup?”

“That can’t be real,” said Castiel.

“It is. It is.”

He unlocked his phone and made some google searches himself.

“How about this,” he said. “They would exercise naked.”

“Yikes,” said Dean. “Though pretty known. Get in the game, man. Here: In ancient Greek, the word ‘idiot’ meant anyone who wasn't a politician. Today it's the opposite.”

Castiel huffed out a laugh at that.

“Married women weren't allowed to watch the ancient Olympics under penalty of death,” he offered. Dean threw his head back and laughed.

“What? Show me.”

He did. Dean shook his head, leftovers of laughter still rolling out from his chest. “That’s so ridiculously harsh. You’re going to a sports match with your wife, and the security guard’s just like, ‘sorry miss, you have to die now.’”

“Rules are rules,” said Castiel.

“Like, what could possibly happen if a woman watched that game that would make you go, ‘it would be better if we straight up killed her’.” Dean looked at him, his eyes shining with laughter, their knees touching under the table. Castiel looked down at his phone and cleared his throat. “I’ve got another one. They believed in zombies and took serious precautions to keep them from rising out of their graves.”

“This one’s so much worse,” said Dean, his eyes already on his phone. “Punishment for adultery for men could entail burning the-“ He paused to wheeze, glancing up at Castiel- “Burning the hair from their anus with hot ash and… God, I can’t read this. I can’t do this to your innocent ears.”

“Show me,” said Castiel, his curiosity sparked.

“Google it.”

“Show me,” he said.

“I don’t want you to find it,” Dean smiled. Castiel sent a hand for his phone, and reluctantly, Dean let him have it.

“Oh, God,” he said after a moment. “Poor radishes.”

“Yeah. Jesus, I’mma have to wash my brain with bleach after this," said Dean. "Okay, last one. Politicians who became too powerful or dangerous could be exiled for ten years if the public voted for it. They just be like, ‘bye. See you fucking later,’ and yeet them off for ten years.”

Castiel shook his head. “You don’t learn these things in school.”

“They don’t teach you about the anus,” Dean smiled.

“They don’t teach you about the anus,” he smiled back.

“Hey,” Dean said. “You’re gonna do great tomorrow.”

“Not as good as you,” he said. “That’s for sure.”

Dean pursed his lips and fiddled with his pen.

“…But maybe good enough,” Castiel added, watching him. Dean looked up, and faked a smile, and patted his shoulder.

“You studied a ton. If you have a blackout, just close your eyes and recite an entire Aerosmith song in your head and then read the question again. Clears your head right up. Works like magic, trust me.”

“I don’t know any Aerosmith songs.”

“Even better,” said Dean. “Make ‘em up. Just make all the lyrics up. Whatever sounds sappy enough in a badass classic rock kind of way.”

Castiel nodded. “Sappy badass classic rock,” he repeated, although he had no idea what that entailed.

Dean smiled. “It sounds even better when you say it.”


	3. Free to Be You and Me

“Eat, sleep, or feel emotions,” said Dean, staring at the ceiling. “Which would you rather give up?”

Castiel looked at him, their heads a foot apart on Dean’s floor. “The ability to urinate. What about you?”

It was weirdly clean. The floor. He’d expected Dean to be much messier, but maybe it was the big brother in him.

He wondered how Dean was with his little brother. If he was bossy, or annoying, or arrogant, like Castiel’s siblings were.

“Easy,” said Dean. “Feel emotions.”

He didn't explain.

Midterms were over weeks ago. It was warm in Dean’s apartment. The afternoon light was disappearing through the window, and Castiel had absolutely nothing better to do than stare at Dean’s ceiling and feel his own heart beat. Apparently, Dean didn’t have much else to do, either.

“But then you wouldn't know what to do in social situations.” He could stay this way for years.

“I'd pay someone with pizzas to be my emotional compass,” said Dean, glancing at him with a smile.

“I'd do that for free.”

Dean’s laughter filled the room softly. “Why?”

“Because that's what friends do.”

“It would be a disaster,” Dean said, laughter still echoing in his voice.

“Excuse me?”

“A, you're terribly socially inept.” Dean sent another smile his way. “And B, that would be the worst job ever.”

“I'll endure the social suicide for you if you endure it for me,” Castiel offered. Dean smiled at him, looked away, looked at him again.

“That’s the most romantic thing a dude has ever said to me, man. Actually, scratch that. A dude _or _a chick.”

Castiel snorted.

“What?”

“Like you don’t get asked out five times a week.”

“Not much time to date between two and a half jobs,” said Dean. He didn’t sound upset about it.

Castiel was quiet for a while.

“Got enough time to lie on the floor and do nothing, though,” he said finally.

“You’re different,” Dean said, his eyes on the ceiling. “Dating is stressful. Friends aren’t stressful. Also, this is for free.”

Castiel didn’t reply. Whatever it meant – that Dean didn’t find him stressful – he was happy with it.

“So, you going on the school trip next week?” Dean asked after a moment.

Castiel wrinkled his nose. “Yes.”

Dean laughed at his expression. “Gotta love ‘em.”

“The company is delightful,” he replied.

“And the food is gourmet. It can’t be that bad this year, though.”

They were supposed to go on the trip weeks ago, but it kept getting rescheduled due to bad weather. Eventually the student council gave up and scheduled a day at the MoMA instead.

“Are you going?” Castiel asked.

“Yep. They offered, and it’s money.”

“You in a museum,” he huffed.

“Excuse me?” Dean laughed. This laughter – anything Castiel said invited it lately, whether he meant it to be funny or not.

He shook his head, and Dean nudged an elbow at his arm.

For a few moments, they were quiet.

“Tell me something.”

Dean turned to look at him. He hesitated.

“You never talk about your family.”

“Neither do you,” Dean countered.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll give you one question if you give me one.”

“Okay,” said Dean, and before Castiel could continue - “I start.”

Then he was quiet.

“Alright…?”

“I’m thinking,” he said. “Do I wanna go with embarrassing memories, or do I wanna uncover a dark secret… Hm.” Finally, he said: “Who are you closest to?”

“That’s your question?”

He nodded.

“That’s neither an embarrassing memory nor a dark secret.”

Dean shrugged.

“Alright. Currently, I’m closest to you.”

Dean stared at him.

“We’re less than a foot apart.”

Dean huffed. “I meant, of your family.”

He thought it over for a moment. “Well, Gabriel-“

“Which one’s Gabriel?”

“He’s the fourth. There’s Michael, Raphael, Luci, Gabriel, Naomi, Balthazar, and then myself.”

“Christ on a cracker,” said Dean.

“Gabriel gets along the best with everyone. Somehow.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“He’s a bit of a trickster. Gets on everyone’s nerves. But he just wants his peace of mind. Everyone else is so melodramatic… But Balthazar is the closest to me in age. He’s been there for me when I needed him.”

“Do you still keep in touch?”

“Not really,” he said. “They’ve all got better things to do now. You know how big brothers are…” His voice faded. “Sorry.”

Dean shook his head dismissively. “Sam and I are all we’ve got,” he said. “So it’s different. Kind of an… ‘Us against the world’ situation, you know?” He huffed out a laughter, but it was humorless.

“Not really,” Castiel said slowly, watching him. “Your parents never…” The question died on his tongue when he saw the way Dean’s face molded into a blank expression, like pulling up the canal bridge around a castle. He checked his watch.

“How is it already eight?” It sounded just a little bit forced. “You probably have other stuff to do.” He sat up with a grunt, stretching.

“Actually,” said Castiel, sitting up beside him. Dean lifted an eyebrow.

It’s just – he didn’t really feel like going home. He didn’t feel like doing anything if it meant leaving Dean’s side.

As- as a friend.

“Well, you said this movie came out last week that you wanted to watch…”

Dean’s face lit up. “The last Avengers movie?”

“Um…” Dean could have literally named any movie, new or old, and he wouldn’t know the difference; that’s how caught up he was with anything pop culture. “Yes.”

“Cas.” Dean’s eyes were a forest in an afternoon sun. He leaned closer, and the light from the window made his freckled face glow. “Are you asking me on a frate?”

No, wait; it wasn’t just his face that was glowing. It was his expression. And like this, he looked more beautiful than any girl Castiel had ever seen.

In the friendly, objective kind of way.

Castiel shook his head lightly. “A what.” His voice was rough.

“A friend-date,” Dean explained, grinning at him. And he couldn’t explain it, but that one sentence felt insurmountable. Like if he said yes then the word ‘friend’ would be erased from the sentence. And he wasn’t ready for that, for– for a hundred different reasons. Because he’s never seen Dean wear socks that weren’t white, for instance.

“Kidding,” Dean said, watching his expression. Great. Now he made Dean feel weird, which made this even weirder. Quick: make a joke. Quick quick quick.

“I don’t frate guys who have more than five Oreo packs in their house ‘just in case of a zombie apocalypse’,” he said, and then froze. The pronoun was a slip up; why couldn’t he have just said ‘people’? He wasn’t even gay.

But Dean was unfazed.

“Shut up,” he said, elbowing Castiel’s side, smiling. “Come on.” He hopped onto his feet and reached out a hand. Castiel took it, and Dean pulled him up.

“So you never mentioned how your car broke down.”

“Hm?”

“How wrecked is it?”

Dean’s eyes moved from the schedule board to look at him. They stood at a corner of the train station, where blue and red neon lights caught in Dean’s hair and gave it a soft glow.

“Oh, it’s gonna be fine,” he said. “Just need to find the time to fix it up. Hit a deer pretty hard. Come on.” The train arrived, and they took a seat.

“Did it survive?” He asked once they were seated.

“What?”

“The deer,” he said. He wondered if he should just give up trying to make conversation altogether.

“Oh. No, it died.” Dean looked down at his card.

They both needed to buy new cards for the train – Dean hadn’t been downtown yet, and Castiel’s old one was from 2017.

Dean’s phone buzzed, and he spent a moment typing into it. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s my brother. About the, uh… Deer.”

“Do you see him a lot?” Castiel asked when Dean tucked his phone away.

“The-”

“Your brother.”

“Not so much.” His eyes swept across the space around them. Castiel looked behind him – and there was nothing but ordinary train passengers. Dean’s fingers tapped on the railing. “Not anymore.”

“Since your father died?” Castiel asked. Dean’s eyes skipped to his face, and then skimmed across the faces around them again.

“Are you alright?” He asked Dean, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What? Yes. Um. Since my dad died,” he nodded. For the rest of the ride, he looked Castiel in the eye.

He hadn’t been to the cinema in so long that he didn’t even know they had remodeled. The colors were brighter, now. The lights warmer.

“When was the last time you were here?” Dean asked, looking around as they crossed the lobby. That look in his eyes – the same look he had when they’d entered the SPN High library for the first time – that wide-eyed slight-gape would make stars look pale in comparison.

“Four years ago?” He answered. “With Hannah.”

“Who’s Hannah?” Dean paused briefly to stare up at a life-sized Hulk action figure. Their faces were the height of its crotch.

“We were in the same class in middle school,” he said, tugging Dean’s wrist lightly, to his own dismay, just to get Dean away from the crotch.

“Did she move?” Dean asked.

“No.”

“And you’re not friends anymore?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes people just fall away.”

“Fall away,” Dean scoffed. “Where I come from, people stick together ‘till one of them gets eaten by a pagan god.”

“Kansas?” Castiel smiled faintly.

“Laugh all you want, buddy,” Dean said. “But you just entered a life-long deal. I won’t let you go.”

He was fine with that.

“Popcorn?”

They got a medium and couple of drinks, and for the first time in forever, Castiel was starting to feel like a real person again. A person with friends (well, a friend). A person who did something other than study until he fell asleep and sleep when he was supposed to be studying.

“Here,” Dean said, handing him a cup. “Blue.” He took the red for himself.

Castiel wrinkled his nose. “Blue?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, gesturing at Castiel’s entire form. “Because you’re… Blue.”

“Have you ever considered picking up poetry?” He asked. Dean snorted, and nudged his side, and said,

“I’m not talking eyes, okay? If that’s what you mean.”

“Then…?”

“Then, about ninety percent of your T-shirts are blue, and whenever it’s sunny out you like to look at bees, you weirdo, and you’re kinda spacey… It’s not a metaphor thing,” he laughed when he saw the way Castiel looked at him. “It’s a matter of association. You know? You associate people with stuff. Like how my mom is crust-less sandwiches.”

“So I’m… Blue?”

“In my mind, you are blue,” Dean confirmed.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. But secretly, he felt just a little weird and just a little touched. He was positive, as far as educated guesses went, that he’d never been a color in someone’s mind before.

They went into the theater hall and took their seats. Dean put his drink in the cup holder – Castiel mirrored the action – and turned to him.

“We’ve got fifteen minutes to spare,” he said. “Open your mouth.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“Come on,” Dean smiled. “It doesn’t sound as bad in context.”

“What context?” He asked. Dean grabbed a handful of popcorn from the carton.

“You’re not throwing popcorn into my mouth.”

Dean grinned.

“You’re not.” Castiel reached out and snagged the handful from between his fingers. Some fell on the floor.

“Hey! That’s not-“ Dean started to say, but a corn to the face stopped him short. “Cas-“ The next corn hit his nose.

“Okay, okay, okay, fair game,” he touched Castiel’s arm to stop him. “Teamwork.”

“Teamwork,” Castiel agreed.

They got twenty six out of thirty by the time the commercials started.

“How are you so good at this,” Dean said as the room darkened.

“I missed four times,” Castiel argued.

“That’s just ‘cause you got cheeky. We could’a had thirty out of thirty if you hadn’t thrown them, like, three feet in the air instead of throwing them straight at me.”

“Where’s the challenge in doing it straight?” Castiel asked, and then looked away. It didn’t even make sense. From the corner of his eye he saw Dean looking away too, smiling softly.

“Next time, we’re getting thirty,” he said to the empty seat on his other side. Dean shook his head.

“You’re a perfectionist.”

“Everyone’s a perfectionist,” he replied.

“Life’s not about getting thirty popcorns in your friend’s mouth, Cas,” Dean said over a generic beer commercial. One of those that always happened on the beach at sunset, with indie music in the background and a bunch of skinny people smiling at the horizon. The way Dean said _friend _still caught him by surprise a little every time with how natural he made it sound. “It’s about your friend’s entire mouth tasting like butter-and-salt heaven. And that.” He pointed at Castiel, who pulled up a grimace.

“What?”

“Having fun.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispered as the movie started. Dean glanced at him, smiling, and he smiled back. Then he tilted the popcorn box towards Dean and leaned back, preparing himself for three hours of understanding absolutely nothing.

Dean didn’t cry when they left the cinema. But he was damn close to it. His eyes shimmered as they stepped back into the cold outside. He took one look at Castiel’s blank expression, and turned to look the other way.

“Look,” He said. “Iron Man meant a lot, okay? To a lot of people.”

Maybe Castiel should have felt something about that. Maybe he should have thought Dean was weak, or emotional, or pathetic, or cute. But he had no opinion either way. Sometimes guys cried. And sometimes they didn't. Either way, Dean’s emotions were valid, even if Castiel still wasn’t exactly sure which one Iron Man was.

The next day, sitting beside him in the library, Dean hacked his way through an algebra question. “If you tell anyone about last night, I will kill you dead,” he warned.

“You mean the part where you got popcorn in your nostril?” He asked.

Dean glared.

“Humans without emotions are like fish with bicycles, Dean.”

“What?”

“Useless.”

“We’ve known each other for months and the most emotion I’ve ever seen you show was a snort.”

Castiel shrugged.

“I’m not judging you,” he said to his book after a moment. Dean was still looking at him.

“You’re so judging me.”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t judge you if you cried at a Celine Dion concert.”

“Cas.” Dean put his palms together. “I would never, ever, tell you if I cried at a Celine Dion concert.” He laughed. “But, hey… Thanks.”

Speaking of thanks; “Ms. Mills gave us these today.” He pulled a paper out of his bag and gave it to Dean.

“A-minus?” Dean’s face lit up. “Good job!” He raised his hand for a high five, and Castiel stared at it.

“I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you,” he said. “So, thanks.”

Dean shook his head. “This was all you, man.”

Well – maybe he was right. Dean might’ve been practicing sock art during the last couple of Castiel’s studying sessions. But it didn’t change the fact that him simply being there helped Castiel study. Him making five hundred coffee cups to get them through civics. Him asking questions about things he didn’t understand. Him practically dragging Castiel from his books when it got late.

There were no breaks from studying before Dean. There were no breaks from life before him.

And now, he was looking at Castiel with… Admiration, almost. And, of course, as soon as Castiel put his graded exam down he already had to start studying for the next one. They huddled together by the library desk, Dean tracing the lines on the book with his fingers where Castiel read. Their knees touched under the table and Castiel looked up, waiting for Dean to move his leg or to look up and smile awkwardly. But he just kept tracing the words across the page, his fingers stilling when the boy on his side paused to look at him. So Castiel scooted closer, and kept reading.


	4. Wishful Thinking

Six a.m. should be cancelled.

For some reason, Mr. Satan decided that six thirty in the morning would be a good time to meet in the school parking lot for the school trip. Castiel did not appreciate that decision.

“Alright, everyone’s here. On the bus, people!” Yelled Mr. Zachariah, the pain in the ass. Dean caught Castiel’s eyes from afar and smiled at his murderous expression.

He didn’t like mornings. To put it gently.

He climbed onto the bus, settling in a seat at the front. And maybe he hoped that Dean – standing in the aisle in line to take a seat – would take the seat next to him, but someone beside him coughed and said,

“Hey- is this seat taken?”

Castiel’s eyes tore from Dean to see a boy with ruffled brown hair looking at him intently.

“Um. No,” he said, and the guy sat down beside him.

“I’m Andy,” he said, fingers fiddling with his schoolbag straps.

Castiel’s head tilted.

“Oh, you don’t know me,” said Andy. “I started here on another season.”

Dean took a seat behind them.

“What?”

“Winter,” said Andy. “That’s what I meant.”

“Oh.”

The bus started moving and Castiel sank into his seat, looking out the window. A hand touched his shoulder.

“Hey,” said Dean, leaning forward between his seat and Andy’s. “You guys gotta see this.” He passed Castiel his phone, and they all leaned in to watch.

“Is this a lizard cuddling a cat?” Asked Andy. “Awesome.”

It sort of was. In an adorable kind of way. Castiel wished he could focus on that, only Dean’s hand was still resting on his shoulder, and, well, it’s practically common knowledge that your best friend who you’ve known for four months and is honestly better looking than any best friend you’ve had before touching your shoulder is a very distracting thing, no matter who you are. So distracting, that Castiel’s fingers were stiff when he gave Dean his phone back.

Dean leaned back in his chair, and Castiel turned to look out the window again. He rested his head against it, watching the trees fly by. When he was very small – four, or maybe five – his older brother used to take him to watch fish in the lake. He knew the names of all the trees and the plants and the little creatures hiding inside the ground. It was magic: sitting on a rock by the lake, swinging his feet above the ground, listening to nothing but the sky and the water. Watching the fish swim about underwater and feeling the sun on his skin. In those moments he made an effort to forget everything he possibly could except for the gentle whoosh of the water.

Behind him, Dean leaned his head against the window, too. Castiel turned to look at him through the gap between his seat and the window, his forehead to the glass. Dean smiled at him like they were sharing a secret.

He smiled back.

“All right, you turds. Listen up.” The class huddles around Zachariah in the lobby to listen. “You will form groups of three. You will read about the artworks in the museum guide book, and then you will return it to me unharmed. You will be quizzed tomorrow about what you learned-” Cue a collective groan from the class- “So pay attention, memorize, and pick a favorite artwork. You have one hour so don’t go too far,” he said, although it didn’t seem he would be bothered if some students were left behind to wander the halls of this place forever.

“Next we have lunch, and then you’re going to build your own architectural models in this workshop… thing… whatever. Dismissed.”

Castiel looked around. The place was so big, he didn’t even know where to start. Already students were spreading in every direction. When Mr. Zach walked past them, Dean stopped him awkwardly.

“Hey- um. Is there something I can do?” He asked. The teacher looked him up and down. He had this kind of arrogant resting expression, like he was always looking down on you just because he was him and you were you.

“You can do what the rest of the students are doing,” he said, and kept going.

“What was that?” Asked Castiel.

“He kind of hates me,” said Dean.

“Kind of?” Meg appeared beside them, and Castiel shifted uncomfortably. Dean shrugged.

“So,” Meg asked. “You guys want to be a team?” And then both she and Dean turned to look at him, like he was the one in charge.

He was in bisexual hell.

Meg raised an eyebrow.

“Um. Sure.”

And so he found himself walking between Dean – gaping at everything in amazement – and Meg – looking around like she was searching for somewhere to sick a knife.

“Where do we start?”

“Post Impressionism and Expressionism?” Dean suggested, pointing left.

Castiel read from the page. “The expression of art and poetry through emotional and subjective personal experience rather than realism.” 

“What do you think this means?” Meg asked, and stood before Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. The actual Starry Night from 1889. Castiel could see the brushstrokes.

“That he was upset?” He suggested.

“And lonely,” said Dean. “Look at the brushstrokes. He was sad, and unwell.”

“And… Dean’s closer,” asserted Meg, her eyes on the page. “Van Gogh painted this in the year before his death, while he was in an asylum. One point for Mr. Squirrel.”

“Oh, so we’re keeping score?” Dean raised an eyebrow. He took her notebook and scribbled something on a page. Castiel peeked over his shoulder to read it:

_Meg:_

_Cas:_

_The Destroyer: 1 pt._

“What now?” He asked. They toured through the Expressionism hall, and moved on to Picasso.

“I like that one,” said Meg, reading the label of an almost eight-by-eight feet painting of five naked women. “’_Les Demoiselles d'Avignon_’. For real, this looks like a bunch of ladies taking a shower together,” she said, turning to Castiel. “Your guess?”

“Um…” Castiel looked at the painting. “He was painting a fashion show and he forgot to paint their clothes.”

Dean read through the pages for a few moments. “I’mma give this to you, Cas,” he said. “These are prostitutes. Diverse prostitutes. He’s combining elements of Iberian and African art.”

“Fancy.”

“Okay,” said Meg. “Moving on. Your turn, Clarence.”

Dean gave him the notebook, and they stopped before a pile of candy that seemed to spill out of a corner of the room.

“This is by Felix Gonzalez-Torres,” Dean read from the label. “And you can actually take from the candy.”

None of them moved.

“My guess is he really liked children,” said Meg.

“Hates his dentist,” said Dean.

Castiel looked at the guide book, and his heart thumped harder. They both looked at him, waiting.

“So this is.” He cleared his throat. “This is a portrait of his lover, Ross Laycock.”

“A portrait?” Dean asked. “But it’s candy.” And he squinted at the pile like he was trying to find a face in it.

“Laycock had AIDS,” he read. “And this pile symbolizes him and the nature of their relationship: sweet, colorful, and full of life. At the beginning of each day, the pile weighs as much as Laycock did. People-“ He coughed to clear his throat again, and his eyes roamed across the page. “People take from the candy, so that at the end of the day, it weighs much less, representing his weight loss throughout the illness. Like he was slowly disappearing. The museum staff fills it up to match the same amount the next day.” He paused for a moment. “Laycock died in 1991, around the time this was made.”

And then they were all quiet for a long while.

“So,” said Dean as they were sitting down for lunch. “Who won?”

SPN High wouldn’t pay for a lunch at the museum café, so Mr. Zach let the students sit down in the outside space, by something that looked like a water fountain. Castiel ate his sandwich and watched the streams of water go up and fall back into the pool.

“It’s a tie,” he said after counting the results.

“Between?”

“All of us.”

“Seems like no one wins today,” Meg mumbled.

He returned her notebook, and she wrote something down. “Tell me your favorites. I’ll text you the summary,” she patted her notebook. Dean opened his mouth – and closed it: without warning, someone sat down between Castiel and him.

“Can I sit here?” Asked April. The three of them stared at her.

“You kind of already are,” said Meg.

“Yeah, well, you don’t mind, do you?”

They exchanged uncomfortable glances, and Castiel felt it: out of the shared April trauma, a bond was created. Did he actually, officially have a group of friends?

Made of the only two people in the entire school he was attracted to?

He didn’t know whether to be thankful, or to take it as an extremely bad sign.

Still, none of them wanted to be the one to tell April to go away.

“L.H.O.O.Q.,” said Dean. “By Marcel Duchamp. That’s my favorite.”

Meg wrote it down.

“What’s that?” Asked Castiel.

“Don’t care,” said Meg. Dean gave him a _what-can-I-do_ look.

“In short,” he insisted.

“It’s a postcard Duchamp bought of the Mona Lisa, and he drew a mustache and a little beard on her and wrote _L.H.O.O.Q._ at the bottom, which basically sounds like ‘she is hot in the ass’ or ‘she has a hot ass’ in French or whatever. Duchamp was a Dadaist,” he explained, to their blank faces. “Which explains.”

“Explains… what?”

“Explains all the weird shit,” said Dean.

They were quiet for a moment.

“Nerd,” said Meg.

“I’m not a nerd! Dada is the coolest movement. Well, technically, it wasn’t supposed to be a movement… Ugh. It’s _cool, _okay?”

“If you say so,” she said skeptically, and kept writing. “How was that painting called, with the two people kissing with a fabric covering their heads?”

“The Lovers,” said Dean. “René Magritte. That one also has an interesting background, his mom committed suicide when he was…” But he stopped short when she sent a sharp look his way.

“How do you remember the details so well?” She squinted at him.

“I picked art history as my major,” he admitted reluctantly, and Meg smiled.

“You’re a nerd.”

“I’m not. A nerd,” he said with clenched teeth. “I had to pick _some _major.”

Meg shrugged. “Nerd.” That girl was about as pliable as a rock. “Clarence? Any favorites?”

“_Drowning Girl_ by Roy Lichtenstein,” he said. That was a lie. His favorite was another one by Felix Gonzalez-Torres. It was called _"Untitled" (Perfect Lovers), _and it was two clocks. That was it. Two clocks, ticking till the batteries run out, because both his lover and him had AIDS and they didn’t know which one would die first. And they were running out of time.

But he couldn’t say that out loud without someone calling him a nerd, or other names.

“You’re almost done.” That was the first thing the lady said. “Quiet, please. You’re almost going home. But before that, here’s what we’re going to do.”

It was three in the afternoon, and everyone was tired, and uncomfortable, and uneasy in their seats. Their objective was simple: group back into threes, find a material in the supply room, and go nuts with it. But not too nuts, because they would be graded. So, they couldn’t really go nuts at all. Dean and Meg chose to recreate Michelangelo’s _David_, and Castiel got some clay from the supply room.

It gave him a moment of quiet.

“Meg used to go knife throwing with her dad, too,” Dean said to him when he was back. “Don't we have so much in common?”

And they both looked up at him from the other side of the table, one with a smile, and one seemingly posing a challenge.

And here’s what was weird – Meg was the one who was smiling.

“Yeah,” Castiel let out, at a loss.

They each grabbed a blob of clay, and discussed which organs they wanted to do. Meg took the head, because, apparently, she wanted to torture herself. Castiel took the torso, and Dean took the limbs.

It started to go downhill about five minutes in.

“You’ve got the easiest part,” Meg complained, occupied with David’s curls.

“Of course I do,” Castiel answered. “Why wouldn’t I make the easiest choice?”

“Because someone is paying for it,” Dean grunted.

“How does this look?” Meg asked, waving for Castiel to come over. He walked around the table and stood beside her, leaning in over her shoulder to examine her work.

“Awful,” he asserted, his breath catching in her hair. The job he did was much better: a rectangular, shapeless block. That was exactly how torsos looked.

“Yours looks like a pan of old mac and cheese,” she grimaced.

“That is exactly what a torso looks like,” Castiel informed her. And he looked up to see Dean looking at them, frozen mid-motion with his fingers sunken into clay. When Castiel made eye contact, he looked away.

He went back to his side of the table, beside Dean, and they kept working: Dean’s arms looked like noodles, Meg’s head vaguely resembled a human being if you disregarded the empty eyeholes, and Castiel’s torso remained the same flawless mac-and-cheese-ful creation it was. Overall: a masterpiece. When they connected it all together, it was starting to look human. It wasn’t seventeen feet tall, but it was pretty dignified for a blob.

“Alright,” said Meg and crossed her arms. “Who wants to do the penis?”

They looked down at her blankly.

“Really?” She muttered. They exchanged glances, and blinked.

“Fine! I’ll do it.” And she grabbed a piece of clay. “You can do the sling meanwhile.” And they got to work.

“Thought you’d be more excited about the dick,” Meg muttered while she sculpted. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“What did she mean by that?” Castiel whispered. “Dean, what did she mean by that?”

“’Cause we’re guys,” mumbled Dean, a mixture of concern and horror in his eyes as he watched her. He leaned over the table to see her work, and frowned.

“It’s supposed to be smaller.”

Meg looked up at him, and Castiel could swear, there was murder in her eyes.

“The penis should be normal sized,” she said from between clenched teeth.

“Michelangelo sculpted it smaller than average, in line with the typical idealization of young men in the Renaissance era,” Dean spat out, clenching his teeth _harder_.

“I’m the one _making_ it,” Meg snapped, “So shut up and go get more clay for the penis!”

“Fine!” Dean called, and left. Castiel watched him mutter to himself all the way to the supply room.

“Isn’t he a weirdo,” Meg muttered once he was gone. Castiel turned to her, wide-eyed. He felt that his expression gave away his confusion, but he couldn’t help it.

“You’re both being weird,” he said to her.

They ended up getting a C for their model. And it wasn’t because of the penis.

But the bus driver had the wrong address, so they had some free time while they waited for the bus to arrive.

Castiel’s limbs felt a little like they were about to fall off his body and roll across the floor. When he saw Meg looking around amidst a group of people, he avoided eye contact and went straight outside.

Dean was there, leaning against a metal railing. When Castiel settled beside him, Dean tucked his phone in his pocket and elbowed his side lightly.

They stood there for a while. Dean looked at him, and smiled, and he smiled back and looked away. The night was falling, and they could see the first stars. He wondered if he should say something, or if this quiet between them should feel awkward. It didn’t. He wondered what Dean was thinking.

And then they heard loud footsteps coming from inside.

“Hey, nerds,” said Meg. “Come on. They’re playing spin the bottle truth or dare.”

Dean glanced at him – like he was searching for Castiel’s approval before he spoke – and said, “Thanks, but we’re past the second grade.”

Castiel allowed himself the hint of a smile.

“Come on,” Meg urged. She looked absolutely thrilled to play: eyebrows pulled down, hands crossed against her chest, every word an angry bark.

“I think we’re good,” said Castiel. “Aren’t we good?”

“We’re good,” Dean confirmed.

“We’re good.”

Meg walked all the way down the path and stood in front of them, and it didn’t help that she was shorter than both boys: her gaze was so fierce, it was almost painful.

“There’s about twenty other teenage girls wearing pink who might try to French me if there isn’t any better competition than Andy fucking Gallagher back there.” And then she said: “Please.”

Castiel let out a sigh. “Fine.”

Dean said, “Friends don’t let teenage girls French friends against their will.”

Still, the whole concept of this game made Castiel uncomfortable. He had no interest in exposing intimate details about people who wished those details to remain private, and no interest in exposing any detail about himself to this particular group of people. He also had no interest in shenanigans.

Sitting a few students apart from him, April grabbed the bottle excitedly and spun it _very carefully_.

And of course.

Of course it stopped on him.

He quit life.

“Truth or dare!” She screeched at him excitedly. And holy Lucifer in heaven if he was going to fall into the French kiss trap. He’d rather throw Meg into _that _ring of fire.

“Truth,” he said unwillingly, and he could swear April’s grin fell a little. When he faked a smile, Dean actually snorted into the bottle of water he was drinking from, although no one else seemed to find his smile so obviously dishonest. 

“Okay,” said April. “When’s your birthday?”

Phew. Easy.

“September eighteenth,” he said.

Or… Was it easy? Did he just tell her something that would come back to haunt him? Was she about to get him a box full of murderous bees for his birthday and finally get back at him? He wouldn’t completely hate a box full of murderous bees.

“Your turn,” April said, and, okay. If she could spin selectively, so could he.

He spun the bottle slow. It rotated towards Meg – he was about to get his revenge on her for dragging him into this whole ordeal – only it kept going for just half a second longer, and landed on Dean.

“Truth,” Dean said, before he could even ask. “I ain’t Frenching anyone.”

“Alright,” Castiel replied. He weighed his options for a moment. He didn’t want to embarrass Dean, or put him in an uncomfortable position, and surely, there were two dozen things he already knew about him which answering wouldn’t constitute a challenge…

“Favorite color,” he said. He knew this: Dean’s talked about it before, in class, trying to repel April with his ability to blabber.

Everyone booed, except for Meg, who gave him a half smile and rolled her eyes next to Dean.

“Blue,” Dean answered easily. He shook his head at a question Castiel didn’t hear.

Someone reached a hand to spin the bottle another time. Dean cleared his throat quietly, and smiled at Castiel self-consciously, and watched the bottle spin to a stop. The next victim started taking her shoes off to fill them with foam; but Castiel couldn’t stop looking at Dean from the corner of his eye.

Blue? What happened to _green is objectively a good color_? What happened to orange?

Dean's words rushed into his head. In_ my mind, you are blue._

He felt the rhythm of his heart pick up. But Dean didn’t seem to give his answer a second thought. They both remained quiet for the rest of the game.

“I was trying to help you dodge a bullet back there,” he said while they were walking to the bus. It was dark now, and students around them were wobbling onward in threes and fours, drunk from weariness.

“Hm?” Dean looked at him.

“I didn’t want to ask a personal question in front of everyone,” he explained. Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized hoodie. It didn’t make him look smaller, exactly – but maybe just a little precious.

So, why did it feel as though he might have gotten a personal answer, still?

He let himself feel the wind ruffle his hair. The chill was slowly disappearing from the air with every passing week, but he could still feel it. He didn’t want it gone.

“Oh. Thanks,” Dean said, and it was genuine. How was it that they already knew each other’s pretenses and sincerities so well?

He looked up at the sky. The stars looked like falling angels, an entire universe away. The cold was getting to his fingertips, and he tucked his hands in his pockets, too. He took a breath. And then:

“I didn’t know you liked blue.”

“I like blue a whole lot,” Dean said, and smiled, and elbowed his side. Castiel felt this moment between them; he just didn’t know exactly what kind of moment it was.

And then they could see the bus, and the moment was gone. He stepped on, picking a seat beside the window.

Looking down at him from the aisle, April asked, “Is this seat taken?”

“I- Uh, promised Dean we’d sit together,” he answered quickly. Dean’s eyes locked with his, and he rushed forward.

"Right,” he said. “Thanks, man.” And he slid between April and the backrest of the chair before them and sat down beside Castiel, turning to smile up at her.

He wasn’t kidding when he’d told Castiel he had “mastered the ‘_I’m a lil shit_’ smile”. April looked thoroughly annoyed.

They didn’t talk on the ride back. Dean stared out the window, occasionally making eye contact and smiling at him, but he didn’t feel like smiling. He couldn’t manage to figure out what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to like Dean? Was he supposed to interpret his actions as flirting, or pining, or just being a 'bro'? When Dean smiled at him, or leaned in closer when he spoke, was he supposed to do the same? Should he be grossed out? Was it wrong, or bad, because they were boys? Or because he was a junior, and Dean was supposed to be a senior? They were only eight months apart, and half of his class was younger than him this amount, or even more.

Somewhere along the ride, Dean dozed off, and his head fell on Castiel’s shoulder. And that was how things went now, he supposed; Dean's hair tickling his face, his scent in Castiel’s nose. He wracked his brain for how he should feel. But at the end of the day, that didn't matter. It didn't change the way he did feel.

He woke Dean up once they were back in town. Dean lifted his head up from his shoulder heavily, and mumbled sleepily, "You're comfy."

And there was something in those two half-conscious, barely audible words, in an old rusty bus with air conditioning that definitely didn’t work, that made him feel more at home than anywhere else he'd ever been in.


	5. Don't Like Conflict

There was always something different in the air on the last day of school. Everyone was so ready to go home and let the summer officially begin; but instead of that feeling being passed on by muted, contagious desperation like it usually was, excitement and relief washed through the halls today.

This end-of-school day was extra special for Castiel: it marked the end of his junior year. And being a senior was about to have its perks: for once, everyone in the hallways respected you more, which meant they feared you more, too. And no one took anything seriously anymore, so he could sleep through his classes and no one would care.

But for now, the air smelled like possibility, and freedom, and Axe body spray. Castiel took his usual seat for the last time, right before Ms. Mills walked into class.

“Alright, gang,” she said. “When I call your name, you’re going to come in here for a quick chat and then get your diploma. The rest of you can do whatever you want, but _quietly_. Anyone who gets their diploma can go home.”

He looked around for Dean, and found him sitting at Meg’s table, bent over a book.

It was strange, this new friendship that grew between the two of them. He wondered whether he should feel excluded.

He settled in his seat and opened a book Dean had given him called The Martian. He’d said: _if you’re gonna open a book, it better be this one. It has space stuff, but it’s **real** space stuff. _

So, of course, he took Dean’s word for it. He tucked his bookmark – a photo of bees – beneath his book, and started reading. The opening line was quite out there.

_I’m pretty much fucked. _

_That’s my considered opinion._

_Fucked._

Someone cleared their throat above him, and he looked up.

“Hi.”

He couldn’t– Jesus. He couldn’t even stand to see her face anymore without instinctively grimacing.

“So what are you doing?” April asked, taking a peek at his book.

“Reading.”

“Do you want to hang out?”

“And do what?” He asked. She shrugged.

“Ms. Mills said to be quiet,” he said.

“We don’t have to talk.”

What was that supposed to mean?

He looked around him, but no one was there.

“April, sit down,” he said with a sigh. She took Dean’s seat, looking at him expectantly. That wasn't exactly the sentiment he’d meant to pass on.

"If you're..." Erh, how did Dean put this? "If you’re _into _me, you should tell me right now."

April stared at him blankly. “What?”

“Just because, see, I think you might be trying to signal it to me, like if you were using a dog whistle, but I’m not a dog, so I don’t get it…” Should he stop talking? April was looking at him with a sort of horrified confusion. He definitely should keep talking – explain himself better. “And if you do have this kind of interest in me, then you should know now that I don’t have that intention at all.”

She gaped at him, stumped. Finally: “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he said simply, maybe a little too fast.

“You don’t know what you want until you try it,” she argued.

“But I don’t want…” Said Castiel, “…To try it.”

April huffed at him in this _how dare you_ way – actually huffed, like his answer was outrageous.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asked. He leaned back, away from her.

“Nothing,” he said, taken aback. She looked at him for a moment more, her expression carved in ice. And then she stood up, and left.

He finally took action. And somehow, he still lost.

About twenty minutes into Ms. Mills’ diploma-handing session, Meg came over and pulled him by the arm. His mind was too preoccupied for his heart to leap nervously at her touch. Dean pulled up a third chair by her table, and Castiel sat in it heavily.

“Clarence, we need you to settle this,” Meg said beside him. And then she said something else. He wasn’t listening; the diversion of his own thoughts was like a bubble around him.

“Of course grades don’t matter,” Dean said on his other side.

He couldn’t get April’s words out of his head. You don’t know what you want until you try it, she’d said. Was she right? He didn't think she was. Surely, you can’t know what you _don’t _want until you've tried it and didn’t want it, but if you already know you don't want something, why put yourself through the trouble? It was a setup for heartbreak and headache and nothing more, and it felt silly to him to put himself through something just the thought of made him dizzy, just to please someone else.

“Cas,” Dean said, touching the back of his hand. He was going to pretend the summer sun through the window was what sparked warmth through his arm at that moment. “Hey. You with us, buddy?”

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head. “What are we arguing about?”

“He says your grades don’t matter,” Meg informed him.

“As long as you try!” Dean intervened. “Trying is what matters.”

_What’s wrong with you?_

“You’ve worked too hard for your grades to be lame,” said Meg.

_Nothing. _

“Exactly!” Said Dean. “He worked too hard. And he deserves credit for _that, _not for whatever these bullshit tests determined based on whatever.”

“Clarence, tell him grades are everything to you.”

Nothing.

“Don’t listen to her, Cas. You know you’re better than that.”

“Tell him. I know you want to.”

“No! Cas. You know she’s wrong.”

“What does it matter?” He interrupted them, quietly.

They both looked at him. “What?”

And maybe it was April snapping at him when he’d hoped she’d understand. Or maybe the sight of his father passed out by the kitchen table this morning. Or maybe he just wanted to enjoy the sun on his skin for one goddamned day. Either way – he felt it. The word vomit.

“What does it matter what either of you thinks of my grades?”

“We just-” Meg started. Dean sent her a nasty look.

“Cas…”

“I didn’t mean it to come out that way.” His hands rose to cover his face. “It’s just- I’m the one who gets to decide what I think… I know… I want.”

“We know that,” said Dean softly.

“Yeah,” said Meg. “Sort of.”

It didn’t feel like they did. But that didn’t matter, because they weren’t really the reason he was upset.

Ms. Mills called his name, and he got up and walked to the front of the class.

“Take a seat,” she said, and he did. She slid a piece of paper across the table. “Take a look.”

He picked it up, and frowned at it.

“How do you feel about it?” Asked Ms. Mills.

He was speechless. She leaned forward, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the top of your class, Castiel.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he shook his head. “I don’t deserve…”

“You worked hard for this,” she interrupted him. “Keep it up. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded in a bit of a daze and stood back up.

“How’d it go?” Dean asked when he returned to Meg’s desk. He let the page drop onto the table, and the two leaned in to look.

“Wow,” said Meg.

“That’s amazing,” said Dean over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said. “So, I’m going to go home. Are you coming?” He asked Dean.

“Nah, I’mma stay here and see if Ms. Mills needs any help.”

“Nerd,” said Meg. “Let’s eavesdrop on other people and make fun of their grades.”

Dean looked at her and shook his head, but he was smiling.

“Okay.” Castiel gave them a halfhearted wave. “See you.”

But straight A’s couldn’t change the fact that all the lights were out when he came back home. He left his bag by the door and peeked into the living room. No Chuck. He checked the dining room. And the kitchen.

He found his father pacing back and forth between the fridge and the oven, a pencil tucked behind his ear.

“Hello, son,” he said when Castiel walked in. His hands were shaking.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asked.

“Just trying to get back into work,” said Chuck, and took a shaky sip of coffee. There were about a dozen used mugs on the kitchen table. “Look, I’m building a new world. I really think this one's going somewhere.” And he snatched a page from the table and held it up in front of Castiel. Half of it was in a language he didn’t even understand.

Don’t get him wrong. He was awfully relieved that Chuck was trying to sober up. He was picking up writing again. He was existing outside of the two square feet around the living room armchair. But Castiel had never seen him this sober until five days ago, and, unexpectedly, it was… a different kind of trouble than before.

“That’s great, dad,” he said reluctantly. “Listen- do you think you could clean up around here?”

“Sure thing, kid,” Chuck slapped a hand on his shoulder.

He almost turned around.

“I’ll do it later.”

Naturally.

He grabbed a couple of mugs and carried them into the sink. Chuck took the pencil off his head and scribbled something onto his page.

“So did anything happen today?” He asked. “At school?”

“It ended,” Castiel replied. “If that counts.”

“Oh. Already?”

He wanted to ask his father when was the last time he took a look at a calendar. But he didn’t. Chuck looked up, abandoning his writing when he saw what his son was doing.

“I can do that myself,” he said, and took the mugs from Castiel’s hands. Castiel left him to it. He went to take his bag and climbed the stairs to his room. There he sat on the floor and looked around him.

This was what freedom felt like.

It didn’t feel any different.

He ripped a page off one of his notebooks and made a list: How to Spend the Summer. He wrote down in the list:

  * Get rid of old school things
  * Get new school things
  * Watch the Stars War (Dean recommended.)
  * Listen to Back in Black by the Led Zeppelin (?) (Dean recommended.)
  * Spend more time with Dean
  * Take down George Washington poster? 

He wasn’t sure about the poster. His phone buzzed: a text from Dean. **_Dobbie is a free elf. You up for a meet?_**

_I don’t understand that reference, _he wrote back.

** _Come on. Harry Potter. It’s pop culture. _ **

_Oh. So Meg was right. _He put his phone down and collected his things from the floor. ‘Spend more time with Dean’ _was _on his list. He should probably do that. It just felt like cheating, to start with the easiest thing.

** _What? _ **

** _Don’t say that. You’re scaring me. _ **

_You are a nerd. _

** _No I’m NOT. That’s why it’s called POP CULTURE. _ **

_I’ll be there in 20_. He grabbed his keys and skipped down the stairs. His phone buzzed:

** _Do you need a ride?_ **

And it was kind of sweet. How Dean always offered him a ride even though he never needed one.

He slipped into his shoes at the front door, his hand already on the handle. He just needed to let his father know he was going out.

“Dad?” He called, listening for the answer. A ruckus came from the kitchen, and he stepped inside. His father was kneeling on the floor, fumbling inside the kitchen cabinets.

“What are you doing?”

Chuck didn’t respond.

“Dad, there’s nothing there.”

“It’s okay,” Chuck mumbled into the cabinet. He threw his hand into it, and a bunch of water bottles rolled out. “I just need… I just need- hold on.”

Castiel stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “Dad, get up.”

Chuck shook him off. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine-“

“Let it go, Castiel.”

“I won’t let it go!” He yelled. Chuck looked up at him. He took a breath, and spoke more quietly. “There’s nothing there. We threw out all the alcohol. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Chuck said. His eyes dropped to Castiel’s shoes. “Yeah. Where- where are you going?”

“To a friend,” he said. “…Person. A friend person. But I’ll let him know I’m not coming.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Castiel repeated, looking him up and down. He offered his hand, and Chuck took it. “Come on. Let’s find you a clean robe. Then you can shower. God knows you could use one.”

“What?” Chuck shook his head. “Don’t cancel on my account.”

Castiel stepped out of the room, ignoring him, but Chuck hurried up after him and blocked his way. Which was just a little funny and just a little sad, because Castiel was taller than him, and broader than him, and sounder than him, and he didn’t have coffee stains all over his clothes.

“Come on,” Chuck said. “I’ll drive you.”

Which was just about the funniest thing he could have said at that moment.

“Ha,” Castiel let out. His father pulled his eyebrows together.

“I’m sober, Castiel,” he said. “Give me a reason to stay that way.”

“Trust me, it’s a bad idea,” Castiel replied. “We are not going, and that’s final.”

Six minutes later, he was clicking in his safety belt in the passenger seat.

“I’ll come back for you at ten,” Chuck said when they pulled up into Dean’s street.

“Thanks,” he said. He tried not to feel weird about this; he wasn’t used to depending on other people’s schedules.

He got out of the car and climbed up the stairs, knocking on Dean’s door. He checked his phone while he waited: he was two minutes earlier than he’d told Dean he’d be there. Was that weird? He knocked again. Maybe Dean was in the shower, and was waiting for a minute and forty seconds to pass before he came out. That made sense. Except now the image of Dean opening the door with wet hair and no shirt on was in his head, and he couldn’t get it out.

He shifted nervously, and knocked on the door a third time. Then, it swung open.

On the other side of it, Dean looked at him (shirtful, and completely dry, to his relief), then glanced around the hall behind him. There was something wild in his eyes.

“Hi?” Said Castiel hesitantly. Dean focused on him again, pulling him inside the house.

“The weirdest thing just happened,” he said. He certainly looked like someone who’s just witnessed the weirdest thing. He closed the door behind Castiel, staring at him like he was about to grow wings right inside Dean's no-bedroom apartment. Then he shook his head, and in one moment – as if all at once he realized how strangely he was acting – his expression smoothed. “So how did your day go?”

Castiel squinted at him, and Dean smiled in return.

“What?” He asked.

Either one of them was going crazy, or Dean was suspiciously good at masking his feelings.

“Good,” he replied. Pulled his father off the kitchen floor. Somehow managed to get into an argument with every single person he knew by dinnertime.

“Yeah?” Dean asked, huffing out a laugh at his expression. He slumped onto the floor with a smooth motion and crossed his legs, tugging on Castiel’s hand. How graceful and careless was his fall all at the same time. Castiel sat down next to him carefully.

“My father,” he said, and let out a heavy sigh. “My father has been sober for five days today.”

“That’s great,” Dean said, searching in his face for that same sentiment.

“You’d think so,” Castiel mumbled, looking at his hands. He felt guilty for saying that. He felt guilty for just thinking it.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a mess. And I always thought, if he could just stop, he would get his life together.”

“Hey, I know,” Dean said, smiling a little sadly, touching his knee to comfort him. “But usually getting your life together happens around day 150,” he said gently. “Trust me, I know.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Cas.”

He looked up.

“My dad wasn’t in the Shitty Fathers with Good Intentions club, okay? He _founded _the club.”

“Did you ever feel like giving up on him?” Castiel asked, and immediately wanted to take it back, because it sounded like _he_ did. And he didn’t. But Dean didn’t seem to be any kind of horrified by the implication; he just shook his head.

“My dad went through some serious crap,” he said, staring at the floor. “But he never gave up on us, no matter how real shit got. And I never gave up on him.” He was quiet for a while before he added, “We were just that kind of family, I guess.”

The way he said it was warm. Castiel couldn’t quite relate. His family wasn’t the loving and caring kind. They were the kind that gave up on each other.

Dean looked up at him then. “Hey, um. Cas?”

“Yes?”

He hesitated. “We’re friends, right?”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked, taken by surprise. “Of course we are.”

“No, I mean, like… _Real _friends. Like, ‘I’d cover up a murder for you’ friends.”

He paused. “Are you trying to get a confession out of me?”

Dean actually laughed at that. “Look. You’re learning how to humor.”

“You’re a masterful teacher,” he replied. They sat in that for a moment. It felt a little like Dean was still waiting for an answer.

“I’d cover up a murder for you,” he finally said, slowly. His tone was conversational, half-serious, and still he felt that he had uncovered a feeling he might have wanted to remain private. He wished it unsaid, but it was too late; Dean picked at a chip of wood in a floorboard, his eyes carefully trailing it.

“Just ‘cause-“ his voice broke and he took a sharp breath, and for a second it looked like he was about to cry. But he pulled himself together, and said, “I’m gonna tell you something I never planned on telling anyone in my life.”

Something in the air shifted. Castiel leaned forward, looking at Dean with an intensity he couldn’t help, afraid to say a single word that would make Dean take his words back.

“And I don’t know if I can do that if you’re gonna judge me,” Dean said, and finally looked up at him. Castiel almost couldn’t stop himself from touching his hand. Just- just to make sure that he was alright.

“Remember…” Dean started, and then paused. “And if you tell anyone about this, I will come at you with a hammer.”

Castiel nodded eagerly.

“Remember what I said about finishing my finals in junior year and being a grade A student?”

“Yes?”

Dean shook his head, and his expression fell.

“You… Didn’t?” Castiel asked, and there it was again – that furrow between Dean’s eyebrows that made him look so miserable Castiel had to look away.

“I dropped out.” Dean let it out like a breath he’d been holding. “At the end of junior year. My dad died over the summer, and I just couldn’t go back. I couldn’t go through a whole year of school and provide for my brother at the same time. So I moved away,” he let out another breath and rubbed a hand at his forehead. “And lied on my resume to get someone to hire me.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Said Dean.

“Well, I figured it was something,” he said.

“You _figured it was something_?” Dean repeated. “You never said anything.”

“It’s your life,” Castiel shrugged defensively. “I didn’t want to pry.”

“I just...” Dean shook his head. “You’re so smart, man. I guess I thought you’d..." His voice faded.

“Think less of you because you dropped out?” Castiel asked. Dean shrugged, and now he actually couldn’t help himself. He took Dean’s hand, and squeezed it.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s just grades.”

Dean nodded at the floor, but it didn’t seem genuine. He pulled his hand back, and Castiel let it go.

“Does Mr. Zach know?” He asked. “The other day, what he said...”

Dean let out a laugh. “Nah. He seriously just hates me.” Then he shifted and smiled at Castiel, that same smile that would sometimes appear on his face before Castiel thought he was about to say something wonderful.

“You know, before you, I…” He started, and Castiel’s stomach twisted, but Dean dropped it all at once.

“It’s happening again,” he mumbled, looking down at his chest. “Cas, it’s happening again.” He gripped Castiel’s arm, and they both saw it: Dean’s amulet, resting on his chest, glowed in a soft light. Dean yanked it off his neck and held the necklace between them, the amulet dangling from it, glowing brighter with every second passing.

“Why is it happening?” Castiel wondered. Dean shook his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Cas, but it was doing it before.”

And on the worst timing in the entire world, Castiel’s phone rang.

“Hello?” He said into it.

“I’m here,” Chuck said on the other line. Was it really so late already?

Dean gaped at his necklace a moment more, and then rested it on the floor carefully and turned to look at Castiel, shaking his head like he was shaking off the eeriness it emitted.

“I’ll be right down,” Castiel said into the phone, and admittedly, they were kind of in the middle of something, but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit hopeful and a little bit proud of his father for keeping his word. He hung up the phone.

“You were saying before?” He asked.

Dean smiled. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Moment’s gone.”

And he didn’t know what the hell kind of moment Dean was talking about that was gone, because the way Dean looked at him made his stomach feel like tiny little goblins were shooting up fireworks inside it. He wasn’t sure when they had gotten so close together, sitting with their legs crossed on the floor, their heads almost touching, but he sure as Heaven wasn’t leaning away, and it seemed like Dean wasn’t going to, either. Dean took a breath, and it seemed to be a gust of courage that made him say,

“I like it when you’re here.”

And he’d never felt this way before: his fingers tingling, stomach twisting, breath catching in his throat, not wanting to ever move away. It wouldn’t take much to just lean in and touch his lips to Dean’s, but he would never do that; would never think to do something so graceful and so careless, would never be as brave as to ask Dean if that was something that he wanted. He took a breath, and it was all Dean. And then Dean leaned in, and he mirrored the motion like an instinct, and their lips touched.

Barely. Pressed against one another, breathless in the quiet room, backing off just as quickly.

“I have to go,” he breathed out, and it felt like the stupidest thing he could have possibly said. He just kissed a boy. _He just kissed a boy and his first words were ‘I have to go.’_

Dean nodded, and Castiel leaned in to kiss him again. And again. And then he stood up, offering Dean his hand and pulling him up, too. His phone rang a second time, and he hit _ignore_.

“Okay, um, I’ll- I’ll see you,” Dean stammered at the door, letting go of his hand, only to pull him into a last quick kiss.

“Call me,” Castiel said, stepping out into the hall.

“I will,” said Dean.

“I’ll text you from the car!” He called, raising his voice as he hurried down the stairs. And he couldn’t see Dean anymore, but he still heard him say:

“Text me from the bottom of the stairway!”


	6. How to Win Friends and Influence Monsters

**Three months later**

“If you say the word ‘lame’ one more time, I’m hiring a clown and making it kill you.” Meg said that, and then turned around and disappeared in the leather jackets aisle. Yes – there was an entire aisle dedicated to leather jackets. But then again, maybe Castiel shouldn’t have been surprised, since the place was called _Abaddon’s_.

Dean watched the piles of black leather swallow her. “Sam would love that,” he said in Castiel’s ear with a smirk.

“He would like it better than the clown killing _him_,” said Castiel, and Dean elbowed his arm hard.

“You can’t be mean to me now,” he complained, like there was some kind of rule about dating people and making killer clown jokes about them.

“I can be mean to you all the time,” Castiel smiled. But he took a swift look around and, having made sure no one was paying attention to them, laced his fingers with Dean’s. It felt a little bit like being in some kind of a spy movie and a whole lot ridiculous: they were standing behind a whole rack of leather pants, looking in different directions, as casually nonchalant as two trees soaking in the sun. Admittedly, Dean was usually the better actor, but if he’d learned anything at all from the past couple of months – it was that he was absolutely incredible at playing straight. No one could ever guess he had any interest in guys. He never even looked at guys’ faces, or at their hands, or at their-

“What are you doing, nerds?” Meg asked, and his fingers tore from Dean's.

“Just checking out these… black leather bras,” said Dean, and he picked up a bra from the rack and held it between his index finger and his thumb like it was something stinky.

She snorted. “Alright, well. What do you think about this?” She held up a black T shirt with a black leather jacket, and black jeans.

“It… looks like your regular outfit,” said Castiel. “I can’t tell the difference.”

“It’s supposed to be a demon,” she complained. “Ugh.” And she turned back down the aisle.

“You know, just keep looking,” Dean called out as she went. “We’ve only got a month and a half until Halloween. Time is running out!”

“It is,” they heard her grunt from the boots aisle.

“Have you got any plans for Halloween?” He asked Dean. They walked down the aisle side to side, looking around. The floor tiles were black. The fluorescent lights flickered. Dean’s hand brushed against his.

“Oh, I’ve got a tight schedule,” Dean answered. A woman walked down the aisle toward them, and they parted to let her pass. “Seven o’clock till nine’s eat candy… Then eat some more candy… And then I’ll probably be in bed by ten p.m. like a big boy,” he grinned at Castiel. “Why? Got an invitation to a super cool party you wanna check out?”

Dean didn’t even have to clarify that he was joking. They weren’t the partying kind of couple. They were the 'drinking coffee and watching dog videos till ten p.m. and then going to bed like big boys' kind of couple.

Which was something Castiel never thought he’d be able to say about himself. Being part of a couple. Not just dating someone, but… being a team with somebody else. Like he was in this together with Dean.

“Yes. Party,” he answered Dean. “With lots of beautiful women.”

“We’re all about the women,” said Dean. There was something so casual about the way he said things like this. His tone wasn’t any different than when he was being serious.

So casual, it made you wonder sometimes if it was just as easy for him to tell a lie.

“Hey guys, I found red contact lenses!” Meg yelled from afar.

They’d never really, officially talked about it. They’d spent every day of the summer together, and they were the most wonderful days, but it was an unspoken agreement of sorts that no one else should know.

Or maybe it wasn’t, and Castiel was reading too much into it. He couldn’t really know when they weren’t talking about it.

Meg appeared again with her hands full. “Do you guys want anything or should we go stand in line?”

"I think we're good," said Dean, looking at him. "Are we good?"

"We're good."

They went to stand in line. Dean’s phone rang, and he dug it out of his pocket to answer.

“Yello,” he said into the phone. “Hey, Bobby. No, I’m good… Yeah. A’ight. Lemme just…” He looked at them and mouthed _I’ll be back_ before patting Castiel’s shoulder and squeezing in between people to get out of the line. “I thought you said Rufus was taking care of it,” Castiel heard him say as he walked away.

“What a weirdo,” said Meg.

They looked at each other.

“So did you choose a costume yet?” She asked finally.

“Halloween isn’t really my thing,” he answered. “I don’t see the point in dressing up and trying to be someone I’m not.”

Meg scoffed. “Halloween isn’t about being someone you’re not. It’s about showing the world who you really are.”

They stepped forward in line. Castiel raised an eyebrow at her. “A demon?”

She shrugged. “Last year I was Wonder Woman.” She moved her leg to nudge his foot. “So who are you, really, Clarence?” The look in her eyes was piercing, and Castiel looked away.

“Not the guy who would dress up for Halloween,” he said. “You’re up.” He looked at her, and saw that she wasn’t paying attention to the line.

“You’re up,” he said again, and Meg stepped forward. Dean came back, looking troubled.

“Everything alright?” Castiel asked. Dean shook his head like he was shaking away his troubled thoughts, and smiled at him.

“Sure. You wanna do the thing?”

Castiel tapped Meg’s shoulder. “We’ll catch up with you later,” he said, and they split from the line.

“So tell me about the thing,” he said as they left the store. He could barely swallow his smile. Dean has brought The Thing up all day, looking just a little nervous of his reaction every time he mentioned it. There was something sweet about Dean being so nervous to impress him, that stood in contrast to his careless, casual exterior. 

“It’s not even really a thing,” said Dean. They stopped at a corner of the shopping center near a fake plant, and Dean's shoe kicked the side of its pot lightly. “More like a thinglet.”

“Alright,” said Castiel, smiling now. It was a relief that Dean didn’t seem too eager to have eye contact, because his own gaze was coming off a little softer than he’d intended on showing.

“So you know how it’s September eighteenth." 

"Yes."

"Which is your birthday,” said Dean.

“Yes, I am aware.”

“And you didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it.”

“Right.”

“Well, then, here’s me not making a big deal by taking you somewhere special – the exit to the Gymboree – and giving you a small gift, lacking proper wrapping or a card.” And indeed, he took out of his coat what appeared to be a large stick wrapped in old newspapers and handed it to Castiel. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Castiel smiled. He wanted to say ‘you’re the best’, or even ‘this is great’ – but he didn’t. He felt weird about saying these things out loud.

“Open it,” said Dean.

“Now? That’s…” But he was already tearing the paper carefully, looking inside. “…A dagger.” He took it out of the wrapping, confused. “It’s a dagger.”

“A blade,” Dean smiled nervously.

It was a long, silver, three-edged blade.

“It’s… Cool,” he said. And it was sharp. Real sharp. Like an actual weapon. “If you’re a hitman.”

Dean laughed tightly. “Okay. Make fun of me. But you know, I thought it could make for a cool gift to keep in your room and also, uh, take around with you.”

“What for?” Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed.

Dean shrugged. “Luck.”

“What kind of luck does it... provide?” He asked, with some confusion.

“The kind of ‘hey, I'm on a trip to the Bahamas and I suddenly have to protect my family from a KGB agent, lucky I have this blade right here',” said Dean.

“Well, that’s… great,” Castiel said slowly, putting the blade back in its wrapping. He had no idea how Dean even got it through security.

This was weird, right? Your best friend who you’ve been dating for three months giving you some kind of bizarre dagger as a birthday present and telling you to ‘take it around with you’ – that couldn’t be normal. But putting that aside... it was a cool present, and probably quite an expensive one.

“Thanks,” he smiled at Dean. “I like it a lot.”

Dean’s face lit up. “You do?”

“Yeah.”

And he couldn’t help but find it strange, that Dean would give him such a gift, but he couldn’t help find it endearing, too.

In second thought, maybe Dean’s gift wasn’t weird at all, and it was all in Castiel’s head that there was something more to it. In third thought, it was a way better gift than what he’d gotten from anyone else, mostly because his family members were too busy or too far away or too drunk to give him anything at all. By the next morning, Castiel had all but put his suspicions aside.

“Remember the job I applied for last week?” He asked as Dean took his seat beside him in class.

“Did they give you a call?” Dean asked, and his face lit up. It was at these kinds of moments that Castiel remembered he was paying for his brother’s boarding school tuition, and working hard for it without complaint. He was selfless in his core, and Castiel couldn’t understand it, not when it came to the hard choices. Worse; it scared him sometimes. Because Dean was ready to make the hard choices, even if he didn’t want to make them. Even if they were painful. Sometimes he thought that when it was time to let go… Dean would be able to. And he wouldn’t. He didn’t think he’d be able to let go.

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head, and shaking the thought away with that. “They want me to come in for an interview tomorrow at five.”

“Funny,” Dean said, pulling a notebook out of his bag. He had to pay extra attention this year if he wanted to keep his job at school. And honestly, Dean’s ability to learn twice as fast as anyone else and somehow keep up with a classful of questions directed toward him as soon as teachers got too lazy to answer them themselves was dumbfounding. Especially when he kept downplaying himself as stupid.

“Why is it funny?” Asked Castiel.

“I applied to this really cool job yesterday, and they told me to come in for an interview tomorrow, at four forty-five.”

Castiel froze, and his eyes narrowed. “Is that so?” He asked. “What job was that?”

Dean’s eyebrows pulled together in response. “What’s yours?” He asked warily.

“The escape room at the shopping center,” Castiel answered. Dean huffed through his nose.

“What?”

“Could think of a couple jobs that’d fit you better,” said Dean. “Like the Grump Store.”

“So you applied to the same job,” he said. For a few moments, they were both quiet. Then Dean said:

“We can be adults about this.”

“Sure we can.”

“Doesn’t have to get competitive,” said Dean.

“Not at all. We’re both grown-ups.”

“Well, I am,” Dean started saying, and stopped short, because this argument wasn’t valid anymore and he knew it. They were both the same age now.

“I guess it wouldn’t make sense not to go together,” Castiel said, somewhat begrudgingly.

And they both acknowledged that it didn’t. That wasn’t a problem; only Dean insisted they should take his car, and see, Castiel insisted they didn’t.

Dean was extremely attached to that old thing. So attached that Castiel sometimes wondered if he should be jealous. But he was fine with it, when they needed to be at the movies. Arriving at a job interview in that thing was just a bit too much, no matter how willing Dean was to make out with its windshield. So they took Castiel’s car.

Naturally, Dean was ecstatic.

“Stupid traffic,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest with a full-on pout. “We’ll be late.”

“We won’t be late,” said Castiel, “Because this car is able to hold under more than forty miles per hour.”

Dean’s pout deepened. “Doesn’t make the traffic go away,” he muttered.

“Well, it helps,” Castiel argued.

They got there five minutes early, and Dean kept sulking. When he walked into the interview, Castiel sat down in the waiting room. The lights were dim, and everything was wooden. A little kid in a pink dress was sitting a couple of chairs away from him, her feet swinging in the air.

“Screaming makes me mad,” she said. She looked at Castiel, and said: “Screaming makes me mad.”

“Uhh…” He answered. The child didn’t look away. “Are you waiting for your parents?” He asked, although no one was there. Still, he could hope. Children creeped him out. Or maybe it was just this child that was particularly creepy.

“No,” she said. She stared at him and swung her feet.

“Are you waiting for anyone?” He asked, a little concerned now. Though he didn’t know whether it was for the child or for himself. The child shook her head, and he looked away.

So, this was awkward.

Ten minutes passed, and Dean still hadn’t come out. The kid staring at Castiel made him uncomfortable.

“What’s your name?” He asked finally, just to make her say something.

“Lilith,” she said and grinned. She had a gap between her two front teeth. “What’s your name?”

The child was looking at him with her gleeful, strange smile, and he panicked. “Uhh… Bob.”

“Bob?” She asked. Her smile vanished, like she knew he was lying.

“Yes,” he said. It was too late to go back. “Bob.”

It was a gift from the heavens: before she could respond, the door opened and Dean came out.

“How’d it go?” He asked when Dean passed by him.

“Good.” Dean scratched his head, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Kind of weird. You’ll see. But hey, good luck.”

“Good luck to you,” he said in turn.

“What?”

“You’ll see,” he answered. He walked into the room and sat down in a big chair. The interviewer didn’t look up from his notes.

“Name?”

“Castiel,” he said.

“Good.”

“I didn’t know we’d be graded based on name quality.”

The man looked up, and although even sitting down Castiel could tell he was much shorter, his gaze was just as threatening.

“You’re a Mr. Chuckles, like the last one, eh?” He said. Castiel didn’t think replying would do him much good.

“Crowley,” said the man. Castiel assumed that was his name. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

“Well, I grew up with a father, five brothers and one sister…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crowley made a gesture for him to hurry up. “So was everyone. I’m more interested in any special skills.”

“Um…” Castiel shifted in his chair. He got an advice for job interviews once: whatever it was that they asked you to do, always say yes. Then figure out how you’re going to do it. “I have some skills. I’m responsible, hardworking, and although I don’t have much experience, I’d…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, the job is in eight hour shifts, nine bucks an hour. How do you feel about cleaning?”

“Cleaning?” Asked Castiel. “I thought the position was for reception.”

“Yes. Reception. But, you know, sometimes things get a bit messy, and, well, mopping up a little blood here and there shouldn’t be too big a problem, is it?”

Castiel stared at the small man, somewhat taken aback. He wasn’t sure about that advice he’d gotten anymore.

Crowley saw his expression, and waved a hand dismissively. “Let’s move on. How good are you with bats?”

“Bats?” Asked Castiel. "The animals?"

“How about small weapons?”

He pushed his chair back, and stood up. “Thank you for your time,” he said with a tight jaw.

“Wait,” said Crowley. “Wait. Sit back down.”

Castiel sat.

And- alright. This man was next-level strange. But he really needed this job if he wanted to leave home and live on his own next year.

“Look, this is a standard job,” said Crowley. “I guarantee it.”

“Alright,” he said warily.

“Now, say,” Crowley cleared his throat. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Goats?” Castiel repeated, somewhat bewildered. “Yes, of course.”

“Ghosts,” Crowley clarified.

“Oh. No, then.”

“Great! Well, we’re practically done here,” said the man. “Just one more question: would you be willing to… Say, accept pigs as payment? More than three, for sure,” he said at the disconcerted look on Castiel’s face. “At least five.”

“I’d… Rather take cash,” said Castiel.

“Alright, well, I think we’re all done.”

“Thanks a lot,” he said and didn't really mean it, getting up from his chair a second time. He was ready to get out of here.

“If you could wait a few minutes outside, I’ll be out to let you know if you’re hired.”

“Already?” He asked.

“Well, you and that guy before you were the only human beings who applied for the job, if you know what I mean,” said Crowley. Castiel really didn’t know what he meant, and he found it bizarre, but it was just another reason to leave.

“Thank you,” he said again.

Dean was sitting in the same chair he himself had taken earlier, next to the child. When Castiel walked out he stood up swiftly.

“Creepy kid,” he muttered as Castiel came to stand beside him.

“Creepy man,” answered Castiel.

“Tell me about it.” Dean patted his shoulder. “Ready to go?”

“He said he’d be out in a minute to let me know,” he answered.

“Oh.” Dean glanced at the kid. “Well.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“I know I said I wanted that job, but I think I’d rather step back and let you have it.”

“Oh, no,” said Dean. “It’s all yours.”

Sure enough, the door opened a few moments later.

“Oh, you’re both here,” said Crowley when he saw them. “Good. I suppose that saves us some time.”

They exchanged nervous glances.

“You both seem like quite a good fit for the job,” said Crowley. Castiel could feel the tension in the tips of his fingers.

“So," said Crowley. "You’re both hired.”

They looked at him, speechless.

“What?” Said Dean.

He didn’t even think this was an option.

“We could use an extra pair of hands around here,” said Crowley.

“To mop up all the blood?” Castiel asked slowly.

“Exactly.” Crowley pointed a finger at him. “This guy gets it. You start tomorrow.”


	7. Spooky Stuff

“Come on. You can tell me.”

Castiel shook his head.

“I won’t laugh! I promise.” But Dean’s pursed lips, pushing back a smile, suggested otherwise.

“I never did,” said Castiel. “I swear. Sorry to disappoint you.” And he was desperately hoping for the six o’clock people to show up right about that moment for their Hour of Escape Room Fun, but the door remained unopen.

“Liar,” Dean smiled and pointed a finger at him. “You’re not sorry at all.”

“That’s right, I’m not,” he said.

He wouldn’t admit it, but working shifts with Dean in Crowley’s creepy, deserted escape room turned out to be an occasion he looked forward to every week. There were no distractions, no studying he had to do, no phone calls Dean had to take, and barely a customer or two a day. It was six hours, twice a week, where all they had to do was tolerate each other’s company and pretend they didn’t absolutely love it. 

“Guess I’ll just have to go through your family albums until I find one where you’re wearing a Halloween costume,” said Dean. “If you ever invite me over.”

It hung between them. They’d known each other for almost a year, and still he never invited Dean to his house. He didn’t mean to be rude – he was just scared Dean would judge him, even if he didn’t mean to. And so, to break the tense silence, he gave in.

“Alright,” he said. “The last time I wore a costume for Halloween, I was seven. And I’ll tell you what it was-“ He raised his voice when Dean opened his mouth- “If you never tell another soul.”

Halloween was in less than a week, and he couldn’t be less thrilled.

“Of course,” Dean said, and now he was smiling in a very sweet way that was simply confusing. He could go from Assbutt-Guy to Charming Boyfriend in a heartbeat, and Castiel could barely do one at a time. “We’re a team, right?”

Castiel nodded slowly. He took that in: they were a team. He’d never thought of this before he met Dean: people could be a team if there wasn’t a ball or sweating involved. People could be a team if they were for one another, and if they had each other’s back no matter what. Just like Dean had asked of him four months ago, on the floor of his apartment: _Real__friends. ‘I’d cover up a murder for you’ friends._ “We’re a team.”

“So?” Dean asked. He was way more excited about this than Castiel cared for.

“Alright. Don’t laugh.”

“I will totally laugh.”

Castiel sighed. “I suppose that’s fine.”

The door opened, then, and a group of five middle-schoolers walked in. They were irritatingly loud, but young enough to have a sort of awe for Dean and him, and they fell silent when they saw the two of them. Being a senior was the best.

“Your turn,” said Castiel, and Dean stood up from his chair with a grunt. He showed the group around and got them into the room. Then he came back, crossed his legs on his chair, rested his chin in his hands and looked at Castiel expectantly.

“I was a unicorn,” said Castiel. “Happy?”

“Extremely,” Dean grinned.

He pouted. “Stop imagining it.”

“I will, if you give me a photo.”

Castiel ignored him and turned to the live camera footage on the computer, pressing the button for the middle schoolers to hear him.

“Girl in the corner, if you could please stop licking the sock. It is not a clue.”

The girl put the sock down in shame and joined the rest of her group.

“So you never dressed up since,” said Dean when Castiel leaned back in his chair.

“It’s for the best,” he answered. “Have you?”

“Nope,” said Dean.

“Never?”

“Halloween wasn’t exactly at the top of my priorities as a kid.” He said it with an easy smile that Castiel doubted was genuine. He didn’t ask.

“My brother invited us for Christmas,” he mentioned, tapping his fingers on the reception desk, just to take this perfectly smooth, careful expression off Dean's face.

“Oh,” Dean said. “You and your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s big, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, he hasn’t done that in a while.”

They didn’t say much after that.

It was raining when they left the building, and Castiel zipped up his thin jacket. The parking lot was already dark. They walked across it quickly with their arms over their heads to block the rain, until they reached Dean’s car.

“You staying?” Dean asked, searching his pockets for his keys. Castiel pulled out his phone and checked the time, protecting it from the rain with his sleeve. He blinked to get the rain out of his eyes.

It was ten p.m. But he doubted his father would care. “Sure.”

Then he checked his messages. There was one, from Dean, from when he was showing the six o’clock kids around. It said: _This one girl keeps asking me about socks. I’m scared. Help _

He looked up to see Dean smiling quietly at him, and realized he was smiling himself.

“What?” He said, pulling the ends of his lips down stubbornly.

“Nothin’,” said Dean. His key was already stuck in the car door. And then he let out this sigh.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was that Dean kept smiling, or that they never did this type of thing. He pulled Dean closer and kissed him and he could feel Dean’s breath when he said,

“Are we a boring couple?”

He let out a laugh. “I mean, not anymore.”

Dean snorted. “Because of the rain?”

“Because boring couples don’t give each other daggers for presents,” he answered.

“Hey,” Dean protested, and there was an edge to his voice, although he was trying to keep it casual. “There was just one dagger. And it was for luck. And either way,” he said, and ran a hand through his hair. “We should go, before we get a cold.”

“I don’t get sick,” said Castiel, “So, really, before _you _get a cold.”

“Well, actually, I don’t get sick either. I was just trying to be thoughtful,” Dean answered. And then he smiled his _I’m a lil shit_ smile.

But later, in the car, Dean brought it up again.

“It’s just- we never do anything,” he said, “Fun, you know? Like go to the movies, or eat out, or…”

“Go to a creepy escape room and probably die?”

“Exactly,” Dean smiled, and took a left turn. They were quiet for a moment as they pulled into Dean’s neighborhood.

“Does it bother you?” Castiel asked. Dean shrugged.

“I guess not,” he said.

“Well, you’ve got a lot on your plate,” said Castiel. “With two jobs and your brother and all.”

“Yeah.”

And what did he have on his plate? Some homework about Jeanne d'Arc.

“I guess I was worried it bothered you,” said Dean.

It did bother him a little, he supposed, but they were at Dean’s house, and he stepped out of the car without saying anything. His hair was a damp mess and he flattened it, squeezing the water out. When they finally entered the house, Dean gave him a dry sweater and some clean socks.

“My socks are fine,” Castiel assured him.

“You sure? ‘Cause no one licked these ones,” Dean answered, pushing his own pair at Castiel.

“Well, in that case.”

“A’ight,” Dean said. “You wanna check the pizza place?”

There was a new pizzeria in the shopping center, and allegedly, it was horrible, which meant they were obligated to check it.

“Sure," he said. "I’m taking your computer.” He sat down next to the dining table to open Dean’s laptop.

Dean turned on the heating while the computer came to life.

“You mind if I take a shower for a sec?” He asked as Castiel clicked to maximize the Chrome window that was already open. He pressed _New tab_ and started typing – and then clicked back on the existing tab. It was an article from a few days back, and it read: _Three teens went missing in one week and the government remains quiet - when will the indifference finally stop? Mothers of the three gathered a crowd in protest on Sunday to raise awareness to the case. _

“What’s wrong?” Asked Dean, watching Castiel's eyebrows pull together. He stepped closer and took a look at the screen, and then quickly clicked the tab closed, typing into the new tab: _Azazel’s Party Pizza Pies. _

“There ya go,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna… Okay.” And he disappeared into the shower.

Castiel shook the moment away and browsed the delivery menu. Pizzas were great. Even these pizzas looked pretty great. Even when the titles were _Burning hot! _And _Double Death _and _It will turn your eyes yellow. _

He browsed some more and then closed Dean’s laptop and knocked on the bathroom door.

“Do you want some coffee?” He yelled at it.

Dean yelled back: “What?”

He opened the door. “Coffee?” He said again. Dean’s head poked from behind the shower curtain.

“Oh. Is there hot chocolate?”

“I don’t know,” said Castiel. “Is there?”

“I don't know,” Dean said.

“I'll check,” he said, mumbling to himself, “You big weird seven year old.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, and I think I left my library card in my pants yesterday. You can take it out if you still want that book you were talking about so that you can get it without returning the one you’ve already got.”

“Oh. Thanks,” he said. How thoughtful.

In the living room – or was it technically the bedroom? Or the kitchen? – he spotted a pair of pants resting atop a pile of dirty clothes. He knelt down to search its pockets and found the card.

About to stand up, his eyes wandered to the floor under the bed. There was a duffel bag stuffed into the narrow space. It was zipped halfway, and something reflected light dimly inside it. He pulled it from under the bed reluctantly to see what it was.

Guns.

Not in the singular, but multiple shotguns, crowbars, and a couple of FBI ID cards, all with Dean’s photo in them, and different names.

He shoved the bag back under the bed and stood up, sitting down at the dining table. Then he got up and went back to Dean’s pants to take the library card. Then he sat on the bed.

Dean came out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. “D’you find it?” He asked. He was wearing plaid pajama pants and a soft T-shirt. “Cas?”

He lifted the card in his hand. “Um. Yes.”

“Neat-o. You sure you don’t wanna take a shower, too?”

“I’m good,” he said. “I think I’ll go home, though.”

Dean looked at him, furrowing his eyebrows with a confused smile, and checked his watch. “Okay.” He crossed the room and took Castiel’s hand. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” said Castiel, and it came out rigid.

“Okay,” said Dean, still smiling confusedly, and kissed him. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

“See you,” he said, and left.

But he still couldn’t shake that bad feeling in his gut off. All through the weekend, he went over the events of that night in Dean’s house in his mind. And it didn’t help that he woke up Saturday morning with a cold; it just gave him more reasons to take a break from his schoolwork, and think about Dean instead. Because, if he was being honest with himself, he’d had a weird feeling about this for a while. Like how vague Dean got about certain topics. Or how sometimes Castiel got the impression he was lying. About meaningless things – like where he spent the weekend, or why he was handing out cold weapons as presents. But this was the first time Castiel actually saw something, and couldn’t deny: it wasn’t normal.

It also didn’t help that on Monday morning, being too sick to show up to school, he was avoiding Dean’s calls and instead distracted himself by tidying his room. There, on the floor, he found the newspaper Dean had used to wrap his present in. He picked it up, about to throw it in the trash, when he caught the headline: _Murder spree continues - and police doesn't seem to get any closer to the killer. _Beneath it was written: _Meanwhile, the body count rises, and the murderer's signature remains consistent: hollow chests, and missing hearts._

He crumpled the paper. And threw it in the trash.

His phone buzzed again and again, and he decided to take a look. There were a few calls from Dean from the weekend, and about fifteen text messages. Four of them were from that morning:

** _Dude. Where are you._ **

** _U stuck in traffic?_ **

**_Apparently, meg is also concerned about your absence but she’s too intimidated by you to send a text._** There was a smiley with a suggestive smile. **_Apparently youre kind of intimidating. Should I be flattered?_**

** _Are you trying on ur unicorn costume? Abducted by aliens? Whichever it is, I know youre getting my messages so no serial killer got you yet. So ANSWER ME._ **

Normal. This was perfectly normal. And it made Castiel feel a little silly and a little guilty for thinking whatever he thought, and mostly, it made him miss Dean a whole lot, and regret spending an entire weekend coughing into tissue paper and obsessing about newspaper headlines instead of talking to him.

_Stayed home sick,_ he texted back. The reply came almost instantly.

** _Aw nooooo what. Is this because you spent 5 minutes straight staring into my beautiful man eyes in the pouring rain on friday, only to then claim you "never get sick"?_**

He smiled as he typed in the answer. _That ought to do it._

** _Trick question. There was nothing straight about that._ **

_You are exasperating, _he wrote back._ I’m leaving._

** _Nooo wait_ **

** _Who will keep me company when ms mills says things about balls that sound like innuendos _ **

** _Cas. I need you for my inappropriate jokes_ **

_Your inappropriate jokes are funnier without me._

** _Not true! _**

**_I hope u feel better… _ **

** _Are you going to take a nap?_ **

**_I wish I could be with you_** (there were five red hearts following that one.)

_Stop being a baby. I’m not going to die. _

** _You think I care about you? Let me rephrase: I want to get phlegm-free kisses_ **

_Eek._

He put his phone down and tidied some more, but Dean wrote him again nearing the afternoon.

** _Does this have anything to do with it being Halloween?_ **

_Yes. I orchestrated the whole thing in order to avoid it._

** _Okay. Well. Can I come see you? Pleaaaaaaase? _ **

_I’m fine, _he said. _Really._

** _Fine enough to see me?_ **

He looked around him, and sighed. _Okay. But only if you promise not to laugh at me._

** _Why would I laugh at you? _ **

** _Unless the unicorn costume’s out…_ **

_Dean._

** _What_ **

_I want a divorce._

The doorbell rang while he was making tea in the kitchen, and he waddled to the door to open it. Dean stood on the porch, and took him in as he opened the door: the heavy blanket around his shoulders, the mug in his hands, his cat pajama pants.

“I’m… sorry,” he apologized for himself.

“What are you talking about,” said Dean, and his voice was a little hoarse. He cleared his throat. “This is _great_. You’re practically an urban troll.”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh,” he said at Dean’s amused expression. But as they walked inside, Dean’s attention was diverted entirely from his pajamas and his blanket. He looked around incredulously – the high ceilings, the wide staircase, the framed pictures on the walls. His mouth was literally agape. It made Castiel uncomfortable.

“Holy hell,” he said and coughed a little. Castiel’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re sick, too.”

“I’m not sick,” Dean frowned at him. “I don’t get sick.” And he turned to look at a picture that hung by the stairs: twelve year old Michael holding baby Castiel in the air.

“Who’s that?” Dean asked.

“My brother Michael holding baby me.”

“Aww,” said Dean. “Like Simba.”

“Who?”

“Lion King. The Circle of Life. That’s the way he’s holding you.”

Castiel looked at him blankly.

“Ugh. You don’t understand anything.”

He really didn’t. “Come on. I’m making you tea.” He tugged on Dean’s arm and led him into the kitchen. He filled the kettle again and grabbed a mug from the shelf. “Will you stop looking at everything like it’s made of bacon?” He asked. “It’s a standard kitchen.”

“Yeah it is,” said Dean. “The size of my _house_.”

Castiel leaned against the counter and stared at his tea. He’d dreaded this moment, and now that it was happening, it was exactly the way he’d thought it would be. Dean saw him, and went to lean beside him.

“Sorry,” he said.

Castiel shook his head at the tea. “I didn’t choose this.”

“I know. But Cas, you shouldn’t feel bad about it. You should treasure it.”

He moved from the counter and poured hot water into Dean’s cup. Then he gave it to him and they left the kitchen.

“What’s there?” Dean asked, looking at the archway on the other side of the front door.

“Just the living room,” said Castiel, and started to go up the stairs, but Dean poked his head into the room.

“Oh, nice to meet you, Mr. Shurley.”

“Is he awake?” Castiel asked.

“No, but he’s still breathing.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” said Castiel as they went up the stairs.

“If you have to see my garbage apartment five times a week,” Dean shook his head, “It’s only fair I’ll have to see your garbage dad once a year.”

“He’s really not that bad,” he answered. Now they were in his room, and Dean looked around like everything was magic. And it wasn’t even the size of it: he was looking at the pictures of Castiel and his family on the walls. He was smiling at the puppy print bedding Castiel had since he was a little kid. He was looking out the window and commenting on how well you could see the blue sky and the Halloween decorations of the houses across the street and the old naked man taking a shower in the neighboring house. He looked at the couch and said:

“You have a _couch _in your room?”

“It’s old,” said Castiel. Dean sat down in the couch and pulled him onto it.

“What’s this?” Dean asked. He took something from the floor that was thrown next to Castiel’s school workbooks, and turned it over. “Is this from the MoMA trip?” he asked, a smile sneaking onto his face. Castiel took a look – it was a photo of Dean standing beside a sculpture at the museum and mimicking it.

"I was just using it as a bookmark," he said. "It… used to be bees,” he explained clumsily. “And then that, uh… Got lost."

“Really," Dean smiled.

“It got lost,” Castiel insisted more sternly.

“Sure.”

“Sorry I’m making you miss Halloween.”

“Oh, I’m devastated,” said Dean. Castiel stretched an arm around his shoulders, and he rested his head back on it and stared at the ceiling. “You know if it weren’t for you I’d be getting all the treats in my Waluigi costume right now.”

“Don’t let me hold you back,” Castiel smiled, running his trapped arm’s fingers through Dean’s hair.

“Seriously, though,” Dean said, and turned his head so that they were facing each other, a couple of inches apart.

“Seriously,” said Castiel, although he didn’t know what they were seriously-ing about.

“Doesn’t matter if it’s not with you,” said Dean, and it was almost a whisper.

He didn’t know what to say. He felt just the same, but it was just too hard to put into words. He tried, but then Dean said:

“Can I just say I’m sorry, the other day at my house…”

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” he said.

“Yeah, but-“

“You have a right to your privacy,” he said. “And I’m fine with that.”

And he didn't know what it was that Dean was doing with weapons and fake IDs and articles about missing people. He didn't even know how he might react the next time he stumbled upon another duffel bag full of guns. But he knew that Dean was a good person, good to his core. And for now, that was just enough for him.

“Okay,” Dean said in response.

“Okay,” he said back, and watched Dean smile.


	8. The Murder Before Christmas

“This week’s going to suck,” said Dean over the phone. “Seven shifts in seven days without you? Ugh. You’re seriously lucky you’re going away, Cas. Working on Christmas eve sucks.”

“Yeah,” Castiel said distractedly into the phone. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending his holiday at Michael’s. It was almost unnatural, this separation from Dean. Almost unnatural how natural it had felt being around Dean in the past two months since Halloween.

He shoved a couple of textbooks into his bag, next to his underwear, and suppressed the feeling that was bubbling in his chest. How could it feel so much like homesickness, when it was a person his heart was longing after, rather than a place?

“I hope you’re not planning on studying at your brother’s,” said Dean.

“What? No.” He threw a pair of pants over his books guiltily. “At least your brother is visiting,” he said to Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice turned into a grumble. “A two-person home vacation with eight-hour-long work shifts in the middle. Merry frickin’ Christmas.”

“It isn’t socially acceptable to only take one sweater, is it?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Dean.

He put the sweater down and sighed. “What am I going to do without you for two weeks,” he said quietly.

“I dunno,” Dean said. “Hang around smart people, for once?”

“Shut up.”

But it wasn’t a thought that had just occurred to him. It was the first time they were going to be apart from each other for more than a weekend since they met, and saying goodbye in person the night before was a little sadder than he’d imagined it would be. He felt bad for leaving Dean behind. And more than that, he wished he could stay rather than spend the holidays with his dysfunctional family.

“Actually,” said Dean, “Charlie said she might stop by, so it might be a three-person home vacation with work shifts.”

“Charlie?” asked Castiel. He opened his sock drawer to grab some socks. Lying in the back of the drawer, where he’d put it away months ago, he saw something shine in silver. Dean’s present.

“That nerd who helped me with a job a couple years back,” said Dean. Castiel picked up the blade and looked at it, willing himself to put it back down. Dean’s voice faded into the background.

“…Kind’a like the little sister I never wanted, you know. Super annoying.”

Oh. The ginger girl Dean had his arm around in the picture in his house.

This was silly. He should shove the blade back into the drawer and pretend he never picked it up. But Dean’s words flooded the back of his brain: _I thought it could make for a cool gift to keep in your room and also, uh. Take around with you. _

Who did that? Who would do something so bizarre unless they had a really, really good reason to do it?

“That’s nice,” he mumbled into the phone. And he put the blade in his bag. “I’ve got to finish packing. Talk to you later.”

“’Kay,” said Dean. “Text me.”

“I will.”

“Now.”

He smiled. “I need to pack.”

“You’ll forget about me later.”

“I’ll never forget about you,” he said.

“See, that’s all I needed to hear.”

“Assbutt,” he shook his head. “I’m hanging up.”

“Bye.”

“Bye, assbutt.”

Chuck insisted on driving. It was his new way of saying _I’m sober and I’m also awake enough to hold a steering wheel _without actually saying it.

It was a four hour drive, and after offering to switch at a gas stop when they get to the middle of the drive, Castiel leaned back on the headrest and pretended to be falling asleep.

It didn’t work.

“So how is school going?” Chuck asked after a few minutes. Sometimes Castiel thought this was the only question people knew how to ask him.

“It’s going alright,” he said. He looked outside: they were leaving the city, and he watched the bare trees and the blue sky. Didn’t seem like it would snow this Christmas.

“Yeah?” Said Chuck. “Good grades?”

He wished it were night, because everything looked a little more magical at night, and because then he would have an excuse to start snoring and have his father leave him alone.

“Yep,” he said, and this time he wasn’t lying. Dean was always teasing him about studying too hard, pushing him to take more breaks. It wasn’t very effective, coming from a guy who was working three times as hard as him.

He missed Dean already.

“Friends?” Asked Chuck. Castiel nodded. “Yeah?”

“A couple.”

“Anyone I know?”

And, alright. He was willing to grumble his way through small talk. And he was willing to answer the same question in twenty different ways. But he wasn’t going to tell his father all about how he was in happy gay love with some guy before spending three and a half hours of silence with him in the car. He knew how hard Chuck was trying to stay sober and be more involved in his life again, but no way.

…No way.

No matter that they had nothing else to talk about. Or how guilty he would feel later for not talking to his father about the only thing he was asking.

“Just Meg from middle school, and this guy.” He leaned into the backrest and held his breath.

“What guy?” Asked Chuck.

“Dean.”

“Okay.” They were quiet for a moment.

“So this Meg girl,” Chuck said. “Is something going on there?”

He exhaled and closed his eyes. “Sure, dad.”

Michael lived in a classic picket-fence house in the suburbs. If Dean knew him, he would call him a ‘basic bitch’. His wife was growing apples and lemons in the front yard, and there were colorful wind vanes and children’s toys on the porch. They went up the stairs to the porch, and Chuck rang the doorbell.

Naomi opened the door. “Hello, father,” she said. Chuck handed her the bottle of wine he’d been holding.

“Almost seven months sober,” he said and went in.

“Naomi,” said Castiel as he passed her by on his way into the living room.

“Castiel.”

Some of his siblings didn’t leave him the best memories growing up.

Inside, perched on a couch, were Gabriel and Balthazar.

“How’s the old man doing?” Asked Balthazar and stretched to pat Castiel’s back.

“He’s holding on,” he replied. “Is everyone already here?”

“Everyone,” said Gabriel. “And it’s like the apocalypse in there.”

Castiel took one look towards the kitchen, and decided he’d rather stay where he was. _What’s new, _He thought.

He sat down between his brothers.

“So what’s going on with you, bro?” Asked Gabriel. A couple of kids – Michael’s daughters – ran out into the living room, shutting the kitchen door behind them. Someone dropped a plate, and Castiel could hear it hit the floor with a sharp thump.

“Not much,” he answered, looking around.

“Is there anything going on in the ladies section?” Asked Gabriel.

“We won’t tell dad,” Balthazar encouraged.

“The ladies section,” he repeated. What’s going on in the ladies section.

Dean’s fingers brushing against his with Meg calling them from between leather jacket racks. Dean holding a bra like a smelly diaper and saying something funny. Dean who, when they parted for the next two weeks, kissed his face over and over and told him he’d miss him.

“All the ladies,” he said in response.

“All of them?” Gabriel snickered.

“So many,” he said.

Dinner was chaotic.

The seating was complicated: it took a military-level strategic thinking to get everyone to sit down without actually causing an apocalypse. This was the result:

Michael sat at the head of the table, with his wife and two girls to his right. Next to them were Raphael and Naomi, and then their father at the other end of the table. Castiel got himself the perfect seat between Chuck and Balthazar. Next to Balthazar sat Gabriel, and then Luci, since Gabe was the only one who came remotely close to being able to stand him. And there, in the vacant seat between Luci and Michael, Michael’s fresh baby had to be placed in order for the two of them to have a distraction from one another. Otherwise, things would get ugly pretty fast.

“Something weird has been going on in the neighborhood,” said Michael after they said grace. “Castiel, could you pass me the potatoes?”

“Weird, how?” Asked Gabriel. Castiel passed them potatoes.

“Murders,” said Michael’s wife. “It was even on the news.”

Her name was Shelley. Like Mary Shelley. She was a perfectly decent person. Castiel couldn’t imagine why she bothered to marry his hot tempered, assbutt of a brother.

If the room could get any more uncomfortable than it already was, Shelley’s words did the trick.

“I remember seeing something about it now,” Gabriel coughed into his plate.

“Horrible,” said Chuck.

“Truly,” said Shelley. “The killer hasn’t been found.”

For a while, it was quiet enough to hear cutlery scrape against plates.

“So we hired a babysitter yesterday,” said Michael, and it was clearly to change the subject. “And went out for our anniversary.”

“Really?” Said Chuck. “That sounds very nice.”

Castiel tuned them out, chewing on green beans distractedly. He wondered what Dean was doing now, and whether his three-person home vacation was too awkward. One of the girls banged her fork on the table and proclaimed, “Hael!” – presumably the babysitter's name.

“Did you have fun with Hael?” Asked her mother, and she nodded vigorously. The little baby said “Wah!” very suddenly and Luci reached a finger for it to grasp, cooing at it.

“Don’t touch him,” Michael barked very quietly, and Luci rolled his eyes and let the little hand go.

“There was a homosexual couple eating spaghetti in the booth beside us,” said Michael to the rest of them. Castiel didn’t think much of it, until Michael said: “It was disgusting.”

Then, he regained focus as forcefully as being thrown into ice water. He moved food around his plate, not looking up from it, and listened to the others murmur in agreement.

“I mean, who wants to eat next to that?” Said Michael. His wife touched his hand to cool him down, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

And maybe it was a mistake not to murmur along, because Michael looked at him and very pointedly said, "Isn’t it disgusting, Castiel?"

“Yes,” he answered. “So disgusting.”

There was a pause. He could have easily left it at that; but he couldn’t think of a better moment to ruin the holiday. And maybe it made him an asshole, but he couldn’t help but want to see the look on Michael’s face.

"I would never kiss my boyfriend with a mouth full of spaghetti,” he said, his voice even and unwavering. “That's just gross."

It was like watching the tower of Pisa fall apart, only so much more beautiful. Everyone gaped at him, except for the children, who couldn’t be bothered enough to pause the task of kneading their potatoes into a sloppy mash with their fingers – and Gabriel.

"Look at them," said his brother, pointing at the other side of the table. "The God Squad, not even polite enough to close their mouths when they eat."

After dinner, Castiel stayed in the kitchen to help with the dishes. On his one side, Michael barely looked in his direction. On his other, Gabriel couldn’t get a sly smile off his face.

“All the ladies, ha?”

Michael shook his head silently. Castiel passed his brother a plate to put in the dishwasher.

Gabriel eyed their older brother. “Oh, would you _please _pull the stick out of your ass?”

“Can we stop talking about this?” Castiel asked sharply.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Michael snapped at him. He shook his head again. “You two are unbelievable.”

Castiel put down the tower of drinking glasses he was carrying and turned to look at him. “What’s your problem?” He asked.

“What’s _my _problem? You’re the one who’s damaged,” Michael spat at him.

He narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head. “Do you think I’m afraid of you?”

“You should be,” Michael barked.

“I could take you down right now,” said Castiel, and maybe it was a little ambitious, but there was no telling if he was right, because at that moment Gabriel raised his palms before them.

“Fellas,” he said. “Chill.”

So they went back to uncomfortable silence.

“What’s all this?” Gabriel asked, trying to alleviate the tension. He pointed at a pile of three boxes that lay by the door to the back yard.

“Summer clothes,” said Michael. “We haven’t had time to put them up in the attic.”

Castiel saw the opportunity, and he took it. He lifted a box and said,

“I’ll go up there.”

“I’ll help,” said Gabriel, and grabbed a box of his own. Michael eyed them, wiping his hands on a towel, but said,

“Alright... Thanks. I’ll be right behind you with the last one.”

They couldn’t get out fast enough.

“You’re welcome,” said Gabriel as they went up the stairs.

“What for? It was my idea to take the boxes.”

“For cutting that ridiculous fight off back there before you embarrassed yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” Asked Castiel as they climbed the last steps to the second floor. From there, there was an opening in the ceiling leading to the attic. He put his box down and grabbed a ladder that leaned against one of the walls. “I would have kicked his righteous bottom in his own kitchen.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Gabriel.

“I took Krav Maga in fourth grade.”

“I know, buddy.” His brother put his box down, too, and looked down the hallway. Someone fell asleep there, on the floor in the middle of the hall. The two of them stepped forward – and stopped on their tracks. It wasn’t someone; it was Shelley.

And she wasn’t sleeping.

“Oh, no,” said Gabriel. "Oh, no."

A few moments later, they came back down the stairs rigidly, the boxes all forgotten on the floor upstairs. They walked into the living room silently, in shock. Castiel couldn’t find it within himself to open his mouth and have it make sounds. But then Gabriel elbowed his side, eyeing the entrance to the kitchen, and Castiel followed his stare. There, touching their brother’s arm, leaning in and laughing at something he was saying, was Michael’s wife.

Alive.

Bewilderingly, horrifyingly alive.

“That’s weird,” Gabriel muttered to Castiel. “That’s… That’s…”

“Weird,” Castiel offered.

“That’s the word.”

They watched Michael talk to the second Shelley. He had the last box in his hands, but now, at something she’d said, he was putting it down.

“Something’s wrong,” said Castiel.

“No shit, Einstein.”

“Wait here,” he said, “and don’t let them out of your sight.” And before Gabriel would protest he disappeared into the bathroom.

He closed the bathroom door behind him and shut his eyes. He couldn’t get the picture out of his head: his sister in law lying in the middle of the hallway, her throat slit, and blood circling the floor around her head like a hellish halo… And then the same person again, laughing with Michael about something in the kitchen.

Except she wasn’t wearing the same clothes.

The thought made Castiel’s skin crawl.

He took out his phone and hovered over the contacts app. He didn’t know what else to do.

This had to be it, right? The weapons, the fake IDs, the avoiding and lying… If anyone at all knew what to do when one of your relatives was both dead and alive at the same time, it had to be the shadiest person Castiel knew. He dialed the number, and listened to the ring.

Dean didn’t answer.

When he came out of the bathroom, he spotted Gabriel standing at a corner of the living room.

“What’s going on?” He asked discreetly.

“Nothing so far.”

“What do you think we should do?” Castiel asked, looking around. Everyone else seemed normal.

“Take out the whiskey?” Gabriel suggested.

“We have to call the police or tell someone before one of the kids goes up and finds her.”

“Call the police?” Said Gabriel. “And tell them what? That on the first night of Christmas Santa gave us a clone?”

“Then we’ll tell someone,” said Castiel.

“Tell them what? That on the first night of Christmas-”

“Alright, alright. I get it. Go and guard the stairs, and I’ll find the second Shelley.”

“I liked ‘clone’ better,” said Gabriel.

“Just do it.” But just as he said it, Naomi appeared stepping down the stairs, looking utterly shaken. She looked around, spotted Michael, and rushed over to him.

“Too late,” muttered Gabriel.

From that moment, the clone wasn’t seen again. Castiel didn’t know whether to see that as a blessing or as a very big problem.

The living room became a mess of people pacing around, wailing, and sitting down on the couch with their heads in their hands. Michael took the kids to the next-door neighbors, and Raphael called the police.

Castiel found himself leaning against the wall by the front door, watching Michael pace back and forth.

“Sorry.” He didn’t know what else he could possibly say. He closed his eyes and tried not to imagine the rotting corpse six feet above their heads.

“I don’t know what to do,” his brother murmured. Castiel opened his eyes.

“Anything I can do to help,” he said. There was a knock on the door. “That would be the police,” he said. “I’ll deal with them.”

“Thank you,” said Michael and walked to the living room.

The kid who stood on the other side of the door was no older than sixteen. Actually, he was probably no older than fourteen – he was just unnaturally tall. When Castiel opened the door, he cleared his throat, ran a hand through his shabby brown hair, and said,

“Mr. Shurley?”

“Yes?” Said Castiel, glancing back behind his shoulder into the house. Out of the eight living souls in the house, seven were currently a Mr. Shurley.

“There was a murder reported in your house?” Said the boy, but it came out like a question.

“Yes,” said Castiel. “Are you a… neighbor?” He asked, looking past the boy’s shoulder. No one was there. He looked the kid up and down – something about him was familiar, but Castiel couldn’t put his finger on it.

“I’m with the FBI,” said the boy, and squared his shoulders. Castiel’s eyes narrowed.

“…Really?”

“I’m an intern,” stuttered the boy. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and flashed an FBI card before Castiel – so fast he could barely catch the picture.

“Sam Winchester. Could you answer some questions…”

Castiel’s squint deepened. “Winchester?” He asked slowly. And then it hit him: Dean’s picture. The one on the shelf in his house. Older, longer hair, no smile – but the same boy.

Sam’s eyes widened – and then someone pushed him aside, and stood at the threshold before Castiel.

“I told you not to say your real name,” he barked at his brother. Then he turned to smirk at Castiel.

“Can’t stay away from me, eh?”


	9. Unnatural. Not… Not Natural

“I’m the one _he _can’t stay away from,” Castiel clarified to Sam Winchester as they walked into his brother’s kitchen.

Now that he wasn’t pretending to be an FBI intern, Sam was looking at him with amazement.

“You’re exactly how I pictured you,” he said. Castiel didn’t know what to make of that.

Dean dropped a duffel bag on the floor. “This is Sammy... Is this your family?” He asked, peeking into the living room.

“Can we focus on the dead person part?” Asked Castiel. “This is hardly the time for introducing our families to each other.” He pulled Dean back into the kitchen.

“Shame, they're all already here…” Dean mumbled.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel demanded. “And how do you know there’s a dead person on our top floor?”

Dean glanced at his brother hesitantly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I said FBI, would you?” He smiled nervously.

Castiel folded his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Okay,” said Dean. He peeked into the living room again. “But you’re gonna have to trust me on this.”

“Alright,” said Castiel harshly.

“I’m talking blind faith. No time for explanations.”

Castiel clenched his jaw. “Alright.”

“Something's in your house,” said Dean, “And it will keep killing unless we stop it, quick. Now, can you brief me on the situation?”

At that, Castiel unwound a little. He unfolded his arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter. Finally, he could make himself useful.

“We started out twelve people. About forty-five minutes ago Gabriel and I found my brother’s wife dead upstairs. Then Michael took their three kids to the neighbors. So now there are eight of us.”

“Ten, with Sammy and me,” said Dean.

“Yes.”

“Did you feel any cold spots around the house?” Asked Dean. “Flickering lights? Weird sounds?”

“No,” he answered. “But there was a second Shelley.”

“Huh?”

“She’s…” He hesitated. “She’s a clone.”

“A _clone_?” Asked Dean, holding back a smile. Castiel glared at the floor.

“We had just found Michael’s wife dead upstairs. Then we came down into the living room, and we saw her alive and well, talking to him. I know what I saw,” he added, although that just made him sound less sure of it.

“Shifter?” Asked Sam. Dean nodded.

Castiel’s eyes bounced between them. “What’s a shifter?”

“Shapeshifter,” said Dean. “It’s killing your family and then wearing its skin pretending to be them.”

Castiel swallowed. “Does that mean it could be one of us?”

Dean grabbed a fork from the drying rack. “Is this silver?”

“Um… Sure.”

“Then that’s how you tell. Silver burns ‘em.”

“Alright,” he said. He felt a little overwhelmed. Were they about to go and try to kill a homicidal supernatural being using a fork?

“Someone called the cops,” he added. “So you might want to cancel that.”

Dean took a look at his brother, and Sam moved towards the door. “On it,” he said.

Once they were alone, Dean leaned against the counter next to Castiel.

“Are you nervous?” He asked, taking a gun from the back of his pants. Castiel watched him empty its bullets and then load it with new ones, and his head spun a little. This was all backwards. His secret boyfriend was in his brother’s kitchen, loading a gun, and worrying about his emotional state. And the strangest part of it was, seeing Dean handle guns and talk about ways to kill homicidal monsters – it wasn’t all that freaky. In a way, it made sense. Like Castiel could finally see the second half of a picture he’d been staring at for months.

“Listen,” said Dean. “I know I owe you an explanation…”

Castiel cut him off. “We can do that later.”

He nodded. “I think that would be for the best.”

For a moment, they looked at each other, and there was something soft in Dean’s eyes. Then his expression broke into a smile. He said,

“So glad we’re spending the holidays together.”

Castiel mirrored his smile, just a little bit. “My family is going to love you. Next time, if you could not bring a gun.”

“Really?” Dean asked. He knelt down to rummage through his duffel bag.

“No. My family is going to absolutely hate you. But don’t take it personally; that’s how you know you’re a decent human being.”

Dean stood up with a knife in his hand. He tucked it into his belt. “I didn’t wanna make you a part of this,” he said, watching his hands. “I was hoping I could keep you out of this part of my life. But I’m gonna need someone I can trust out there. Someone I know I can count on with weapons, with keeping people safe and calm. So.” He took a small breath. “Do you happen to have that angel blade on you?”

Castiel watched his blade as Dean spoke.

“If it touches you, it can become you. The key is to act normal and don't let it know you know who it is… You okay?”

He nodded.

“We’re gonna find it.” He touched Castiel’s elbow for just a moment. “Sammy will guard the door. I’ll go there and mingle with your family, try to figure out who it is. You go upstairs and…” He pursed his lips. “Try to find any other bodies. It might be hiding them. I’m sorry,” he said. Castiel shook his head.

“I’m good.”

For a moment, he almost thought Dean looked at him with a sort of admiration.

“You probably shouldn't walk around holding that,” he added, gesturing at Castiel’s blade.

“Oh,” he said. He shoved it up his sleeve. “Better?”

“Great,” Dean grinned, and the timing couldn’t be better because just then, Chuck and Gabriel walked into the kitchen.

“Castiel, do you know where the pie…” They stopped and took in the scene.

Castiel looked at Dean. “This is Dean,” he explained. “He’s helping with the… situation.”

“FBI,” said Dean.

“FBI,” Castiel repeated.

The two men looked at them skeptically.

“FBI,” said Chuck doubtfully.

Dean pursed his lips. “…I’m an intern,” he said unwillingly. Gabriel went to open the fridge.

“Does anyone ever believe that?” Castiel muttered at Dean. But then he recalled what his brother had said when he entered the room.

“Pie is a good idea,” he said as Gabriel took a pan out of the fridge. He eyed Dean. “We can use the silver forks.”

“I’ll help,” Dean enlisted. He nodded slightly at Castiel, and Castiel nodded back.

“So, are you Spaghetti Guy?” His brother asked Dean.

“No,” he lied quickly, to Dean’s confused expression, before he left the room, a little red in the face.

He went up the stairs, gripping the edge of his blade carefully inside his sleeve. Shelley was still lying in the middle of the hallway, and he carefully stepped past her.

He looked through the master bedroom and the kids’ rooms. He poked at the attic door with a broom. When he turned to leave, he saw Luci come out of the bathroom.

“Oh, hey, bro,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for… something,” said Castiel.

“Really?” His brother took a step forward. “What is it? Maybe I can help you look.”

Castiel watched him for a moment. Then he said, “It’s alright. I’ll just be in the guest room. If anyone is looking for me, tell them I just... I need to be alone for a while.”

He turned around and started walking. One step, two, three – until, as he’d hoped, he felt his brother follow behind him.

In a split second, his blade was in his hand, and he turned around. The shifter was quicker than him, gripping his arm and holding it back, the sharp edge an inch away from his face. Castiel hooked his foot around its ankle and yanked, causing it to lose its balance. It tumbled backwards, but instead of letting Castiel’s arm go, it held him tighter, and his arm was pulled forward until the blade almost impaled the shifter’s throat on its own. The creature let him go dreadfully, but yanked his other hand, so that Castiel was the one to lose his balance now and he stumbled to the floor. He felt a fist hit his jaw and opened his eyes to see his blade lying on the floor, between them. The creature lurched to grab it, dropping it immediately and hissing as it burned its palm.

Then, they heard someone call from downstairs:

“Cas?”

The creature’s face twisted with something that was both panic and frustration. And then, in a matter of seconds, to Castiel’s horrified eyes, it changed its form. Now, with Castiel’s voice, it called, “Coming!”

The blade was out of his reach. He struggled to stand up. The last thing he saw was his own face getting closer and closer, and his hand balled into a fist.

He woke up to the sounds of a skirmish down the stairs. His blade was still on the floor, a few feet away from him, and his head had a cut at the hairline that didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore when he touched it. At the sound of a shout, he stood up quickly and grabbed his weapon. His head was pounding. He rushed downstairs, and took in the scene: on one side of the room, his shocked family, and Dean, aiming a gun at the other side of the room. There, a fight was occurring between his clone self and Dean’s brother. Neither of them was holding any silver. Dean’s gun followed their movements in panic, but he was hesitant to shoot, and it took just a moment for Castiel to realize why.

“It’s him,” grunted Sam, throwing a pleading look at Dean as he ducked under Castiel’s clone’s fist.

“Do you really think I’d be fighting your brother,” said the clone, throwing another punch at the boy, “If I weren’t one hundred percent sure it wasn’t really him?”

And, to be fair, it was a compelling argument. The clone threw Sam to the ground and put a foot on his chest. Dean’s aim moved between them helplessly. The clone lifted his foot, and Sam shut his eyes.

And then a blade pierced the clone's back, and he collapsed on the floor. The room turned to look at Castiel, at the foot of the stairs, and then back at the scene they’d been watching. When Dean looked at him, there was shock in his eyes, along with a kind of strange respect.

He rushed over to his brother, making sure he was okay. And it was like the room could finally let go of a breath it’s been holding.

With a certain amount of dread, Castiel went back up to look for his brother the shifter had imposed before. He found Luci knocked out in the bathroom - and now he was wondering whether it was his search of the upper floor that had distracted the creature from finishing the attack on his brother and kept him alive.

Back in the kitchen, Dean was fussing around his injured brother like an anxious mama hen.

“Great,” said Sam when he entered. “Do me a favor and drag him away. I feel like I’m on my deathbed.” And he put a frozen packet of baby carrots to his wounded head.

Castiel did drag Dean away.

“Is he alright?” He asked when they were alone.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Dean, letting out a long exhale. “He’ll walk it off.” He looked at Castiel. “Rough day, huh?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Found a dead body. Fought a supernatural being. Killed my clone.”

“Shapeshifter,” Dean corrected. “Not a clone.”

“Couldn’t tell the difference if I wanted to.”

“Well, there’s no such thing as clones…” Dean rubbed his eyes. “You know what, never mind. Listen, you kicked ass today.”

Castiel shrugged.

“You impaled someone by throwing a blade at them from a twenty-feet distance.”

“Beginner’s luck,” he said.

“You’d make a good hunter.” Dean shook his head absentmindedly.

“What’s a hunter?” He asked, though he was starting to think he had a vague idea. 

“I think I owe you a conversation,” said Dean.

“Okay.”

“What you saw today…”

“It’s been a long day,” Castiel cut him off.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we can do this another time,” He said. “Once we’re both back home.”

“Um,” said Dean. “Sure. Yeah.” He patted Castiel’s shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

Castiel watched him go. He hesitated. Then he said, “Wait up. I’ll walk you to the car.”

They walked side by side silently. Dean opened the passenger door for his brother, and closed it after him. He leaned against his car, smiling at Castiel halfheartedly.

“Merry freakin’ Christmas,” he said.

“Thank you for all the… Life-saving,” Castiel said to him. “Sorry I ruined it for you.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugged, and his smile turned genuine. It was the most endearing thing, when he smiled like this, with his eyes more so than with his mouth – like he was trying not to give away his feelings. “It was kind of already ruined without you.”

It wasn’t the first time he was saying something like this. Castiel shook his head. Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and poked his elbow at Castiel’s side.

“See you,” he said. Then he glanced at the dark street around them, and quickly sneak-kissed Castiel’s cheek. He flashed a smile at him and got into the car. Castiel waited on the sidewalk until the old Impala was out of sight.

Then he let out a sigh, and went back inside. His fingers were stiff with the cold, but he barely felt them. He felt numb and overwhelmed and already guilty for leaving Dean this way, without saying anything nice. Without letting him know. It was like the more intensely he felt something, the less he was able to let it show. And he always felt the most intensely about Dean.

He walked inside to find Luci, Gabriel and Balthazar sitting in the living room with their heads resting on their fists by the window. When he appeared at the entrance to the room they all turned to look at him, smiling in a way he didn’t care for at all.

“What was that?” Asked Balthazar. But the way he said it made it clear that he already had a very clear idea of ‘that’ and of what it was.

So, the living room window had a view of Dean’s parking spot outside.

“Nothing,” said Castiel. He slumped on the couch and wished he could sleep for fifty seven years holding his boyfriend on this couch in that moment. Or, actually, on any couch. Maybe a futon.

“Are you dating that guy?” Asked Gabriel.

“It's not a big deal,” he said.

But it was a big deal. It was his boyfriend who lied to him and then saved his entire family's life.

No one wanted to sleep upstairs.

Their father suggested that maybe the police didn’t have to be involved – after all, the FBI had already taken care of things – and no one ever disagreed with him, so there was no dispute. Everyone slept in the living room: Chuck and Naomi on the sofas, and the remaining six of them on the floor.

“So tell me more about this Dean fella,” whispered Gabriel on his left when they were settled into their spots on the rug, the room dark. To his right, Balthazar stirred and rolled over to face them. “Yeah, what’s he like when he’s not aiming a gun at someone?”

Castiel considered which details he wanted give out. “Well, he’s sweet,” he said. “He’s also eighteen. And he’s good, you know what I mean?”

Gabriel nodded with a smirk. “Sex.”

“What? No. Ew. I meant he’s a good person.”

“Was it love at first sight?” Asked Balthazar.

“Of course not.” He recalled the day Dean joined SPN High, sat beside him after trying all the other chairs in the room. How aloof he’d been to the friendly, curious stranger. He really had no idea that this stranger would turn his life upside down, and that he’d do the same for Dean.

“Does he often barge into people’s houses with a gun and a fake ID and starts a fight with their cloned family members?”

And here was a question he’d been asking himself, and had no answer for. And as burning as curiosity was, he imagined it was the kind of question everything would change once he asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered vaguely.

“Tell us more,” said Gabriel. “Did you get very far?”

He glanced at his brother in the dark. “I’m not answering that.” He gripped his blanket. “This is starting to sound like a musical. Good night.” And he pulled the blanket over his head.

He swiped his phone open, and his finger hovered over the icons. He felt bad for how he left things with Dean.

_Sorry about earlier, _he wrote. _What did you want to tell me?_

_You were right, _Dean wrote back. _We should just talk about it when you get back._

He closed his phone and sighed. The blanket lifted slightly where he exhaled.

Gabriel lifted the tip of his blanket to peek inside. “Are you sexting?”

“Yes.”

He pulled the blanket back down and wrote Dean _okay_. Then he rolled onto his side and shut his eyes.

They stayed for the funeral. The day after, Michael said they should probably go. So Castiel found himself once again in the car with his father, listening to the soft whoosh of the A/C.

This time, he was the one to talk first.

“So you don’t have a problem,” he managed to mutter with somewhat of an effort. “With the…” He cleared his throat. “The gay thing?”

“Oh,” said Chuck, like he wasn’t expecting that to come up. “No. No. Of course not. You know, I’ve been with a lot of women back in my time,” he said. “A lot of guys, too. Sometimes at the same time. I remember once back in my early twenties, it was around 1985-”

“Dad,” Castiel cut him off. “Dad. Too much information.”

“Well, we’ll leave it at-”

“I don’t want to know.”

So, silence it was. Silence, and dreadfully hoping his father wouldn't bring up threesomes ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't not think about the Arthur fist meme whenever I read this line: "The last thing he saw was his own face getting closer and closer, and his hand balled into a fist." Just had to say


	10. Monster Talk

Waiting for Dean to open the door was a little nerve racking.

Castiel stood at the threshold, tapping his foot on the old doormat on the floor. It was the kind of mat with a written message, like ‘Welcome’, but instead of ‘Welcome’ it said ‘Go Away, Demons’. There was a black spot at a corner of it, and Castiel knelt down to look at it. It didn’t look like dirt; it looked like paint. He wondered whether something was written on the bottom. He touched the edge to turn it over, but at that moment, Dean opened the door.

“Um,” he said. “You got beef with my doormat?”

“Sorry,” said Castiel. He dropped the mat.

“Come in.”

He came in. Dean sat down on the bed.

“So I owe you an explanation,” he said. Castiel sat down next to him.

“I suppose.”

Dean sighed and rubbed his face with his palms. “Where do I even start,” he said.

"How about the whole..." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "Unnatural creatures... deal."

“Yeah. Okay. Alright. So, basically…” Dean raised his eyes to him, and he looked so lost. “Basically, everything you can imagine when you think ‘monster’ is real.”

“Anything?” Asked Castiel.

“Anything,” said Dean. “Kids’ books, horror movies, nightmares… Pretty much anything.”

Castiel pondered at that for a moment. “Aliens?" He asked finally.

“Okay, aliens aren’t real,” said Dean.

“Nymphs?”

“Not really.”

“So what kind of unnatural things?”

“I dunno, less general stuff,” said Dean.

“Bigfoot,” said Castiel.

“No, not really.”

“Oh! I know,” he said. “That man. The man you like. Mister Iron.”

Dean snorted. “No, Iron Man isn’t real. Not in this universe, anyway. No, Cas. Regular unnatural stuff. Stuff that’s not natural. Like ghosts. And demons. And vampires and Satan.”

“Satan is real?” Asked Castiel. “My father would be very upset to hear this.”

“You can’t tell him,” Dean rushed to say. “You shouldn’t, Cas. This world, the real world, the world with killer shapeshifters and asshole angels and werewolves, it’s terrifying. If everyone knew, it would be chaos.”

“Everyone knows about nuclear bombs and tornadoes,” Castiel pointed out.

“And?” Dean said, in a way that indicated he thought he was right.

“And what?”

“And – the world is in chaos. The monster thing would make it ten times worse. People deserve to walk the streets feeling safe. As safe as they can feel, with… nuclear bombs and tornadoes.”

He didn’t understand. “So are they supposed to live obliviously until some… shapeshifter slits their throat?”

“Well,” said Dean. “That’s where hunters come in.”

He waited for Dean to explain.

Dean looked at him.

He looked back.

“What are those,” he said finally.

Dean’s expression lifted with apparent pride. “That’s what I do.”

“By ‘do’, you mean…?”

“It’s like a part time job,” said Dean. “Only you don’t get paid. Or recognized. And you’ll probably die. Along with everyone you love, most likely…”

“Sounds great.”

“Hunters are like FBI, but for monsters. We capture, try and execute. No one knows we do it, and no one should.”

“So you lie to everyone around you?” Asked Castiel. He didn’t mean it to be a jab, but Dean’s mouth twisted. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he added softly.

Dean cleared his throat, watching the floor as he spoke. “Most hunters don’t have a normal life. We move around a lot. Yes, we lie to the people we meet on the way. But that’s because we have no better choice. We used to move around all the time before my dad died, but now..." He shrugged. "Sam should have a chance at life, you know? Look, Cas, I’m sorry I lied to you. I didn’t think you’d believe me, and I didn’t wanna get you in the middle of it.”

“I’d say after seeing a homicidal monster try to kill your brother in my brother’s living room, I believe you,” he said.

Dean nodded. “I wish it didn’t have to happen that way.”

“It’s okay,” said Castiel. “I understand.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose, just a little bit. “You do?”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“You tried to make the best of a bad situation.”

“I really did.”

"Killing clones is hard work."

"Not a clone," said Dean.

They sat in that for a moment.

“Still a lot to take in,” Dean said quietly then.

He nodded.

“So…” Dean scratched the back of his neck. “You wanna break up, or…”

“What?” Castiel let out sharply.

“Well, I mean… You know. The lying. And the hiding. The whole ‘killer monster’ business. Everyone around me dying and all that. I just figured…” He took a breath. “Once you found out, things wouldn’t last much longer. And maybe that’s for the best.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Castiel.

“Cas,” said Dean. “I attract trouble. That’s the way it is. If this goes on, one of us is gonna end up getting hurt and that’ll just be bad for everyone involved.”

“Dean. Hey. Look at me.”

Dean’s eyes skipped across the floor, like he was reading a sentence there that told him to frown.

“Look at me.”

He looked.

“I’m in as long as you’re in.”

“Cas, it never ends well with me,” he replied. There was pain in his eyes.

“I don’t care,” said Castiel. It came out so fierce, it felt almost too intimate. Like he was exposing a piece of his heart for Dean to stomp all over. But maybe that’s what love was; it was making yourself so vulnerable you’re bound to end up getting hurt.

Castiel hated that.

But maybe sometimes he had to open himself up in order for Dean to realize it was okay for him to do that, too.

“Okay,” said Dean. “Okay. On one condition. You always have the take-back option.”

“I already do,” smiled Castiel. “And so do you.”

“So… we cool?” Asked Dean.

“We’re cool,” Castiel assured him. “Um- one question, though. Back in Michael’s house, on Christmas – you just showed up.”

“That’s not really a question,” said Dean.

“I called you that night,” he said. “Did you know something was going on at my brother’s?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Dean. “Bobby and I-“

“Who’s that?” Castiel interrupted.

“Family friend. Kind of an uncle for Sammy and me. Anyway, we were working a case, and while we were checking out the neighborhood, we heard on the police radio there was a murder reported right there. Yeah, I read the name on the mailbox and realized you were there, but I didn’t even see you called. So,” he grinned, “You could say I was too busy saving your ass to pick up the phone and save your ass.”

“Aha,” said Castiel. “Remind me, who ended up killing the thing?”

Dean laughed and elbowed his side lightly. “Hey,” he said. “Thanks, man.”

“It’s kind of me who owes you one,” said Castiel. “Next time an unnatural being jumps you on your brother’s second floor, I promise to be the one waiting downstairs, protecting your family with a stick.”

“Ha,” said Dean. “That was a crowbar. And no, you won’t, Cas. You did a great job back there – better than some hunters I know. Better than me, sometimes, that’s for sure – and I’m thankful for you being supportive of it, but you can’t be involved in that part of my life.”

“Dean,” he said. “I know Krav Maga. No offense, but I’m probably stronger than you. I can take on some weird not-natural creatures.”

“You think you’re stronger than me?” The skepticism in Dean’s voice was almost insulting.

“I know I am,” he replied. “I can kick you in the butt right now.”

“You mean kick my ass?”

“That’s what I said.”

Dean’s smile faded a little. “That’s not the issue,” he said. “This has to be a part of my life, Cas, and it has to be a separate part. That’s just the only way it’s gonna be.”

“Alright,” he said.

“Alright?”

“It’s your thing.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Okay.” He rolled the hem of his sleeve between his fingers. “So, anyway. How’s your family doing?”

“Horrified,” said Castiel. “Pretty confused. But my dad told them to give it a rest, so they did.”

“Just like that?” Asked Dean. “Do they do everything your dad says or something?”

“Pretty much."

“Weird.”

“Yeah,” he said. “They can be pretty irrational about it.”

“Listening to your father?” Said Dean. “I dunno. Seems pretty rational to me.”

Here was something he didn’t want to unpack.

“Yeah. So, anyway." He tapped his fingers on his knee nervously. He wasn't sure they were at a point where changing the subject would be acceptable. "About your birthday.”

“That’s in three weeks,” said Dean.

“I know. I thought we could do something nice.”

“That requires three weeks of planning?”

“Mmm, that depends.” He opened a screenshot on his phone and showed Dean.

“Oh my god.” His eyes widened. “Mr. Rock Man?”

“It’s two towns over,” he said. “A few days after your birthday. Do you want to go?”

“Yeah,” said Dean, hugging his shoulders. “Of course I do. Oh, God. Thank you.”

“Great,” Castiel managed from within his tight clutch. “Because I already bought tickets months ago.”

“Can’t believe you remembered I like that guy,” Dean said, letting him go.

“Uh, yeah. Of course I remember,” said Castiel nervously. “I don’t have a list.”

Dean eyed him suspiciously, but he was grinning. And for a moment, it was like Christmas had never happened, and the unfamiliar tension between them fizzled out. 

He showed up at Dean’s house on Thursday night, three weeks later.

“Here,” he said when Dean opened the door, and handed him a bag. “Happy birthday.”

“What’s this?” Dean asked with a smile. He took it, kissed him hastily, then looked inside. “A stick. Wow. Thanks. Is this payback for your present?”

“Open it,” said Castiel impatiently.

“Okay.” Dean unwrapped the green paper. Inside was a black stick with a button on it.

“Oh my god!” Said Dean. “A stick.” But when he pressed the button, the stick turned into a glowing sword.

“You got me a lightsaber?” Dean breathed. “Oh my god. Cas. Imagine killing monsters with that thing.” And he swung it through the air experimentally.

“I was thinking more ‘run around with it around the apartment in your underwear’,” he said, “But sure.”

“Yeah, that too. Aw, man. You know me too well.”

He supposed he did know Dean very well.

Dean gave him another hug, a genuine, tight one, and he pushed him away lightly.

“You’re a nerd.”

“No, I’m not,” Dean pointed the sword at him. “We are not having this discussion again.” Then he rushed over to his closet. “I’m gonna put it between my ninja stars and my favorite gun.”

_Hold on._

“You have a weapon stash in your closet?”

Dean turned around to face him. “Don’t freak out, okay? You would’ve too if you had a demon climb into your house through the window at 2 a.m.”

“Um. Should I be worried about that?” He asked.

“No, thanks to my ninja stars,” Dean grinned. He put the lightsaber away. “So what’s our schedule?” He asked.

“We’ve got to leave tomorrow at ten for the show, so I think I can stay late today,” Castiel said. “What do you feel like doing?”

“Hmm…” Said Dean. He raised his hands palm-up like two scales. “Watch Netflix in bed with PJs… Go outside…” The Netflix hand rose higher.

“Really?” Asked Castiel. “You’d rather stay home on your birthday?”

“Well, between staying home wearing pajamas, or being anywhere else, _not_ wearing pajamas….” Dean shrugged.

“You’d rather wear pajamas,” Castiel summarized. “Fine. But I need to study first.”

“For Chem?” Dean asked. “But you’ve been studying for it for two weeks straight.”

“Just for a bit,” said Castiel. “And about tomorrow – I’ll be here at ten exactly, so don’t be late.”

At that, Dean frowned. “You mean you wanna take your car?”

“Just because if we take yours I’ll be left behind in favor of you getting a room with it,” Castiel retorted.

“Funny,” said Dean. “Real funny, man. I’m not riding in your pimp car.”

“If by pimp you mean adequate and having been made in this century.”

“No, by pimp I mean pimp.”

“Dean, your car won’t survive the trip.”

Dean gasped at him like he had just said God was a drunken old bum. “Baby’s been holding on the road for half a century.”

“Which is exactly why _I’m right_,” Castiel argued.

Dean crossed his hands over his chest. “I’m not taking the Pimpmobile.”

“I’m not taking Barney the fifty year old dinosaur!”

“Fine!” Dean’s arms tightened across his chest. “We can take the bus.”

“Fine.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed.

“Thank you,” Dean added from between clenched teeth, but it melted the atmosphere, and they started to smile.

Dean helped him study for an hour and a half before he pulled his chair back and said, “I give up.”

Castiel’s brows pulled together. “I didn’t get that many wrong.” 

“You didn’t get _any_ wrong.” Dean slapped his hand on the table. “Cas, we’ve just done ninety minutes of you getting every single question I asked right. And I didn’t even know what I was asking.”

“You never studied it,” Castiel argued. “And you don’t have to be tested on it.”

“Point is, I didn’t do senior year and I’m doing just as fine as you,” said Dean. “So why don’t you just chill for a couple of hours so we can watch Legally Blo..." His words died at the sigh of Castiel's raised eyebrows. "Uhm... I mean, a manly movie.”

“You go ahead. I’ll just finish the chapter.”

“It’s my birthday,” said Dean, raising his eyebrows, and tugged on his hand.

“Ugh. Fine. You…”

“Innocent leisure-loving birthday boy?”

“That’s just what I was thinking,” Castiel smiled.

“Come on.” Dean pulled his hand. He set up the laptop on the bed, while Castiel made some hot chocolate in the kitchen.

“What are we watching?” He asked as he climbed the bed beside Dean.

“Um…” Dean browsed the Netflix Action section. “What… Whatever you want.”

Castiel squinted at him. “You want to watch Legally Blonde, don’t you?”

“It’s a good movie,” said Dean defensively.

“Well, it’s your birthday.”

“Great,” said Dean. “And we’re never talking about this again.”

Castiel wanted to say: _being in a relationship with you, there are a lot of things we never talk about again_, but he thought it might be a little too mean. Dean found the movie and clicked it, and then stretched from the bed to turn off the lights.

It was dark when he woke up. Dean was asleep, holding his arm like a teddy bear. His laptop was wedged in between them. Castiel rose up on one elbow and looked at the clock on Dean’s nightstand.

It was 3 a.m.

Crap.

He was supposed to be home. His father must be worried. He must have called.

He fumbled for his phone frantically, but he couldn’t find it anywhere. Carefully, he extracted his arm from Dean’s hold and stood up stiffly, wobbling a little bit. He felt for his phone in the dark and found it on the kitchen table.

No new messages.

No calls. So, his father didn’t have the drunk excuse this time. He just didn’t care; or didn’t notice.

He left his phone on the table and went back to sit on the bed. While he felt the floor for his shoes, Dean swayed behind him.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. He found one shoe, and started undoing the laces.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked. His voice was gruff from sleep.

“I need to go,” Castiel whispered back.

“It’s th’middle o’ the night, Cas.” Dean’s words came out slurred from sleep. There was a shuffle on the bed, and then Dean’s fingers wrapped loosely around his elbow. “Don’t go.”

Castiel put the shoe down and turned to face him. He was lying face-down diagonally on the bed with his eyes closed. An adorable idiot.

“What about tomorrow?” Asked Castiel. Dean’s head rose, and then sank down into the bed.

“We can sleep in and leave from here in the morning,” Dean mumbled. Then he went very quiet. And then he started snoring.

Castiel watched him, unsure. It would be silly to go back now, but his father...

...Didn't even know he was gone.

He kicked off his jeans, pushed Dean back to his side of the bed, and went back to sleep.

The second time he woke up, it was actually morning. Something was nudging his arm, and something else was saying: "Cas. Cas. Cas." He turned around to see Dean, still half asleep beside him, poking him. "Wake up, you butt."

That wasn't what woke him up. It must have been the alarm, which Dean had turned off, only to turn around and bother him so that he wouldn't have to get up himself.

"Let me go," he grumbled.

"No," said Dean. "We've gotta get up. It's nine thirty."

"Five more minutes," he muttered. Dean buried his face in the blanket. Then, after a few moments, he gathered the energy to prop his chin on his forearm and poke Castiel with his free hand. "Come on, you butt."

"I said five more minutes," he grumbled back. "I thought you said you love sleep."

"I love it when I can afford it," said Dean. "Now, get up, or I'll push you off the bed, because we're gonna be late."

Castiel let out a sigh. He made an effort to lift his head, then turned it so he could see Dean, then he plopped it on the pillow again. "If you push me off the bed, I will sit on you."

"That's not a real threat."

"If you think so," said Castiel, "Then it's because you've never had me sit on you."

"Doesn't sound so bad," said Dean, and he was smiling. 

He made the effort of beginning to roll towards Dean, but Dean pulled away quickly.

"Alright, alright," he said. "I believe you. C'mon, we're gonna be late."

Slowly and grouchily, they got up and made it to the kitchen. Dean put up a kettle. 

"D'you sleep alright?" Asked Dean as they set up two mugs and poured instant coffee into them. 

"Sure," he said, rubbing his eyes. He hated mornings. He hated mornings so much, he wanted to sit on them. "You?"

"Well, you stole my blanket."

Oh. Well. "Yeah," he said. "I do that."

"Then I better get used to it," said Dean, and then there was a lot of the both of them staring at the floor and trying not to smile. 

"Here's your coffee," said Dean.

"Thanks."

They drank quietly. Castiel watched the sunlit room. He'd never seen the light hit it so brightly. He'd never been here before, at nine thirty in the morning, leaning against the counter and drinking coffee next to Dean. And he was pretty sure he could get used to this. 

Dean shifted and leaned a shoulder against his, and hummed at the hot mug he was holding.

No, yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

"Need a sweater?" Dean asked, eyeing his used shirt.

"That would be for the best of both of us."

Dean went to his closet and fumbled through it. "Here," he said. "My favorite one."

"You don't have to..." Castiel started, but Dean shoved it into his hands. It was strangely soft and had a pixelated pizza slice on the front.

"I know, I know. I'm lame," said Dean. "Whatever. Just take it."

"No, I think it's..." Castiel pursed his lips to suppress a smile. "Cute."

"Sure you do," Dean muttered. 

Ten more minutes, and they were set to go. 

"Tickets?" Said Dean.

"I've got them."

"Keys?" He patted his pockets. "Here. Okay, let's go."

They put on their coats and walked to the bus stop.

"Can't believe we're taking the bus," said Dean. They were lucky it wasn't raining, but the wind was rough, and he tucked his chin into the collar of his coat. 

"We could have been in a car right now," said Castiel, "With a normal working heating, hadn't you been so stubborn."

"Love you too," Dean grinned. "And, hey, thanks." He leaned in and kissed Castiel's cheek quickly. 

But the bus stop wasn't so far away, and the cold really wasn't so bad, certainly not when Dean took his hands and rubbed them between his own to 'keep them warm'. The wall behind them was painted with some halfhearted graffiti, and there was a flyer taped to it. 

"Look at this," said Castiel, and Dean turned around to look. 

"Valenween?" He read. "As in Valentine's and Halloween? Is this some kind of fair thing?"

"I guess so," said Castiel. "It's on February fourteenth. Why would they do a Halloween themed Valentine's day?" 

Dean shook his head at the flyer. "Man, your people are weirdos."

"That's ridiculous," Castiel added. Then Dean said:

"Let's go."

"What?"

"It might be fun," Dean smiled at him.

"We just agreed that it's ridiculous," Castiel argued. 

"We can keep agreeing on it. While we're there. Come on, don't be a party pooper. I promise not to win you anything."

He looked at the flyer again. Finally, he said, "Why do you want to go?"

"Because we never go out?" Said Dean. "And I don't wanna miss it if it's gonna really suck and we can go and laugh at it?"

"Eek."

"You'll regret it if we don't go."

"No I won't," he said.

"Fine. I'll regret it."

"Eek," he said. "Alright. Fine. But if you win me anything, I'm sitting on you."


	11. Valenween

“It’s pretty rough, huh?” Dean slumped on a chair beside him at the cafeteria. “Landing on your ass.”

“You mean, getting back to reality?” He asked. He looked around, biting into a French fry.

“I mean, thirty hours ago I was in my underwear in bed and you were using my arm as a teddy bear.” He lowered his voice when he said that. “And now I’m sitting at the cafeteria eating cold broccoli.” His mouth twisted.

“As far as I remember, you were the one using my arm as a teddy bear,” said Castiel.

“Whatever. Same thing. I wanna go back,” Dean said. “Why can’t it be the weekend every day, Cas?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes darted across the room again.

Dean straightened up and wiped his hands from French fry grease. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been kinda meaning… Or, trying to find the right time to tell you.”

“Yeah?”

“Well,” Dean cleared his throat. “I don’t really know how to say it. The school decided-“

“There’s Meg,” said Castiel. “Hey, Meg!” He waved her over. She grabbed an orange and a plate of fries and headed their way.

“Hey, nerds.”

“Sorry,” he said to Dean. “What were you saying?”

Dean watched Meg sit, and shook his head. “I’ll tell you later.”

Meg pulled out her phone and scrolled through it. Castiel paused to look at Dean.

“You okay?” He said quietly.

Dean nodded. “So are you going to the Valentine’s fair?” He asked Meg. She scrolled away, not looking at him. “Meg. Meg. Meg.”

Still staring at her phone, she picked up a fry and threw it at him. Dean sighed, and turned to Castiel.

“So what’s new with you?” It was a joke, clearly, but Castiel swayed in his chair.

“Actually,” he said, “I’ve been… starting to look at colleges.”

“Oh,” said Dean, and his face fell, just a little. It was somewhat of a sore spot between them. The recent future was a topic they chronically avoided; in almost every scenario, Castiel would be spending the next three years at least an hour away from his hometown, and he wasn’t going to ask Dean to come with him. No, it was too much, too soon.

Dean traced the edge of the table with his finger. “That’s great,” he said, watching his plate. Meg raised her head to look at him.

“What did you want, loser?”

“I...” said Dean. "I don’t know.”

“Something about a fair.”

“Oh. Right. Are you going to that tonight?”

“That weird Halloween thing?” She asked. “Sure. I’ll go and mock everything.”

“That’s what we were planning to do,” said Dean.

“Oh, yeah? Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said. “So, Clarence. College search, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Wayward Sisters?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “But it’s over an hour away.”

“It’s the closest one that doesn’t suck, though,” she said.

“I know.”

“Have you applied anywhere else?”

“Oh, yeah.” He scratched his head. “Um. One upstate, a couple of others a few cities over.”

“Branching out,” said Meg, peeling her orange, and smiled. The air filled with that orange smell that wasn’t bad but was just undeniably _there_.

“Yeah.”

Dean glanced at him from across the table.

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

“We’ll see,” said Castiel finally. “Who needs a college degree anyway? Maybe I’ll just skip it and get a job at IHop.”

Dean stared at the table and shook his head.

“They don’t hire weirdos,” said Meg, and took a bite of her orange like it was an apple.

The fair was at a big parking lot by the beach. It was cleared of cars and transformed completely; everything was red and black and the entrance was an arch of red roses.  
"This is ridiculous," said Dean at the sight of the gate. The place was already packed, and there were people coming and going. They stood in line to buy tickets.

"Look at this," Dean snorted. He touched Castiel's elbow and pointed at something inside. It was a game booth with an air rifle and a wall of lined-up black cans of Coke Zero. "Even the coke cans are themed."

Castiel took a look at the front of the line, and swiftly shifted to stand behind him.

"Hide me," he hissed.

"what?" Dean moved to stand beside him, but Castiel grabbed his hand and, very deliberately, hid behind him again.

"Look at the ticket stand."

"What?" Dean leaned sideways to look. "I see a girl's back. Oh my God," he feigned a shocked expression. "Cas, Are you afraid of ponytails?"

"Look at the girl," Castiel hissed at him. Dean took another look, and turned around, shook.

"Okay. I create a distraction, you run in the other direction."

At the front of the line, April sat at a stand and handed out tickets for a dollar.

"Just get the tickets and I'll stand behind you. Don't let her see me."

"Alright," said Dean. "Stay behind me." He started humming.

"What are you doing?" Asked Castiel.

"Dude," he said. "Mission Impossible theme. We just watched it the other night."

They took one step forward in line.

"Do you really expect me to remember the themes to all your shooting-bad-guys movies?"

"Um, yeah."

"That's unrealistic, Dean."

They took another step.

"Okay," Dean whispered to him. "Just keep your head low."

And before he could say anything else, they were standing right in front of her.

"Oh," April said when she looked up. "Hey, Dean." And she smiled the fakest smile Castiel had ever seen. "What's up? Came here alone?" She tilted sideways to look behind him, and Castiel ducked his chin into his coat collar and turned around.

"Yeah," said Dean. "Yeah." He tilted his torso in the direction she was looking to block her sight. “So. Two tickets, please.”

April raised an eyebrow. “Two tickets?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Just for you?”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Why?” She asked, her tone suspicious.

“Because…” Dean scratched his head. “I… I get snacky. And, you know, they only let you buy one meal per ticket.”

“No, they don’t,” said April.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they do.”

“No,” she insisted. “I work here.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?”

“Student council,” she said.

“Oh,” said Dean. He was stumped. Castiel felt so bad for him he almost turned around and put him out of his misery.

Almost.

“Alrighty then. Two tickets and I’ll be on my way.”

“You mean one,” April said. Castiel turned halfway around and took a glimpse at her: she sat at the stand with her back straight and her perfect ginger hair falling on either side of her determined face.

“Yeah, one,” said Dean. “And then another one.” He leaned a hand on the table, shrugging his shoulders. “I get snacky.”

April inhaled. She seemed to be on the verge of losing her cool. She huffed through her nose, and handed Dean two tickets.

“Enjoy,” she said through her perfectly fake smile. “And tell your friend he’s an ass.”

Dean slapped a two dollar bill on the table and grabbed the tickets.

"Why does she have to be an active member of the student council?" He muttered as they crossed the rose arch.

Inside, everything was themed. The game stands and the food stands were painted in black and red stripes; the employees standing at every booth were wearing black and red; even the lighting poles had roses taped to them.

"Why does it look like Dracula had diarrhea in here?" Dean scrunched his nose.

Castiel stopped walking to look at him.

"What?"

"Is Dracula real?" He asked.

"Oh. No." Dean snorted.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” said Castiel.

They kept walking.

Then, as an afterthought: "I mean, I don't think so."

There were lines for everything. Most stands were out in the open, but towards the back there was a small stone building with a big sign at the front: _House of Mirrors. _There was soft jazz music coming out of the speakers that was something between spooky and sexy. Dean turned to him and said,

“Hey, Cas, I think they might be onto something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah: spooky and romantic have much more in common than we thought. Look.” Dean put one hand on his shoulder and another in the air, like he was about to demonstrate something. “It’s twilight now, which is the perfect lighting for both spooky times and sexy times. The music is perfect for seducing someone and then killing them. This color combination is supposed to be romantic but it’s just creepy. And it smells like sweaty teenagers in here.”

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. “What does sweat have to do with Valentine’s day or Halloween?”

“It doesn’t. It’s just gross,” said Dean. “Hey, let’s check out the food.”

“Yeah,” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Because you get snacky.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The food stands were absurd. There were spider themed black noodles with a white stringy cheese sauce for webs. There was a chocolate fountain with red broken-heart cake pops. There were pink gummy bats.

“You think Dracula feeds those to his kids?” Dean asked, pointing at a stand that was selling red cotton candy.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Asked Castiel. Right in front of them, a few feet away, a guy wearing fangs was talking to an employee.

“Wow,” said Dean. “I can’t believe people would wear costumes in February.”

“What do you want?,” asked Castiel. “I want to go take a look at that shooting game over there.”

“With the coke cans?” Asked Dean. “Are you good at those?”

“I bet you’d do pretty well.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing that,” said Dean.

“Oh, come on.”

“I thought we were coming here ironically.” Dean argued.

“We were,” said Castiel. “And we’re going to hit some coke cans, ironically.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

They got some cake pops and went to stand in line for what was concerningly called ‘Cupid’s Bullets’.

“Check this out,” Dean pointed at a hologram of a lady in white appear and disappear in the middle of the crowd. “That’s just creepy, man.”

“Yeah.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “It is.”

“Oh, hey, look at this. If you get ten out of ten coke cans you get that huge plushy of a dragon!” Dean grinned. “I am so winning you that.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought we were coming here ironically.”

“We are,” Dean smiled. “But I’ve still gotta be a good boyfriend.”

And then they both turned to look in different directions, and Castiel felt his face redden a little bit. Dean glanced backwards; the two girls behind them in line were so close, they definitely heard what he said. But they seemed to pretend that they didn't.

“If anything,” Castiel said after a moment, “I’ll be winning _you _the stupid dragon.”

Dean snorted. “You’re cocky, you know that? Alright, how ‘bout that. Highest score keeps the dragon.”

“You’re on,” said Castiel, and raised his hand for Dean to shake.

Dean shook it, and said, “I’m going to crush you.”

He just replied, “We’ll see.”

When they got to the front of the line, Castiel asked, “Do you want to go first?”

“So that you’ll have a chance to back out when you see me crushing it?” Dean smirked. “Sure.” He took the fake rifle and positioned himself. He closed one eye. Then he started shooting coke cans.

“Whoa,” said the guy at the stand, staring at the scattered cans. “Dude.”

Dean put the rifle down, took the dragon, and turned on his heel, grinning at Castiel. “Ten out of ten,” he said. “Consider yourself a loser.”

Castiel stepped forward and grabbed the rifle. He squinted at the replaced cans. He imagined they were a wife-killing shapeshifter. He exhaled. Then he took ten shots.

He turned around to see Dean actually gape at him, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Guess we’re even,” said Dean incredulously.

"I guess we are," he said. "Give me the dragon."

"What? No way." Dean clutched the plushy tighter. "Why?"

"Why? Because this is my first time shooting something while you've had, how many years of practice? Two? Three?" 

“Seven,” Dean admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’ve shot guns since you were _twelve_?” Asked Castiel. “Wow. That’s just sad.”

“Sad enough to give me the plushy?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

Castiel pursed his lips. “Cut it in half?” He suggested finally.

“Deal.”

The _Cupid’s Bullets _employee leaned forward. “Can you guys move over? There's other people waiting in line.”

They moved along, plushy in hand. Dean insisted on carrying it.

“There’s another guy wearing fake fangs,” Dean said as they walked. “And there’s that white lady again. And there…” He squinted his eyes. “Mr. Satan and Mr. Zach engaging in a fist fight?”

“What? Where?”

“There.” Dean pointed at them. “Either they're fighting, or that’s a really intense hug.”

“Alright,” said Castiel. “Alright. But I raise you this one.” And he pointed at a woman with an awfully realistic machete who seemed to be beheading a fake vampire. They squinted at the sight.

“Is that ketchup?” Asked Dean at the red liquid that spurted everywhere.

“Everything looks so real,” said Castiel.

“Hold on,” said Dean. “I think… I think I know that woman.”

Then something in his expression shifted. His eyes dropped to the fake corpse, and then moved to Castiel’s face.

“Hey, um. Will you do me a favor?” He asked, and his voice wasn’t a hundred percent stable. “I... I’ve gotta go. Would you just stay right here until I come back?”

“Okay,” said Castiel slowly. “Go where?”

“Urgh…” Dean looked around them. “To the bathroom. I have to pee.”

“Why can’t I come with you?” He asked. “The toilets are right there.”

“Because...” said Dean. “I’m embarrassed.”

“Alright. Well. I guess that’s okay. I’ll just wait here, then.”

“Great. Thanks. You’re the best,” Dean patted his shoulder.

“Although, you know, your bathroom door isn’t so soundproof. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before...”

“Okay, don’t push it,” said Dean. “Here. Hold this.” He handed him the dragon, appraising it in Castiel’s hand. “How do you think we should call it?”

“Timothy,” said Castiel, at the same time Dean said,

“The Destroyer.”

“Timothy, the Destroyer.”

“Good one,” said Dean, and disappeared in a general direction that didn’t seem at all to be the direction of the toilets.

Castiel shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around, dragon tucked under arm. There wasn’t much to do without Dean. He supposed he could try one of the games, but who would be there to stand his smug showing-off when he won? He could grab a bite, but he’d rather share it. Except, Dean told him not to move.

Except – he didn’t have to do everything his boyfriend told him to. He could do whatever he wanted. He could eat spider noodles if he wanted to. He could mingle. He could...

“Hey, nerd.”

He turned around – and there was Meg.

“Nice teddy bear,” she said, gesturing at Timothy with her head.

“I’m just saving it for Dean,” he explained.

“Oh.”

“His name is Timothy.”

“Lame.” She smiled. “So do you want to hang out?”

“I’d love that,” he said. He looked around and saw the white lady again. She was walking towards someone, raising her hands – only then, Machete Lady from before sliced through her with a crowbar, and she vanished into thin air. “I’d… love that,” Castiel repeated. “But I can’t. Will you excuse me.”

He pushed past her and hurried after the lady.

He followed her into the food area and behind the bathrooms, speeding up when she rushed into an alley full of people. He almost caught up to her when she took a turn behind the _Skeletons In Love _stand – and disappeared.

Well. What was he supposed to do now? Machete lady was nowhere to be seen, and he probably should go back to where they parted in case Dean was looking for him. But... there, right there beside a stand that was called _Heads Will Roll in the Hay_ was Meg, talking to another guy wearing fake fangs.

Only the fangs didn’t look so fake to him anymore.

“Hey,” he waved Meg and approached them.

“Hey,” said Meg. “What’s the deal with you bailing on me?”

“What? Nothing. Who’s this?” He pointed at the guy, who was looking him up and down coldly.

“Uhm... He’s, eh...” She gestured at him. “Some guy.”

“Jared,” the guy reminded her.

“Jared. Yeah. I knew that.”

“Do you... know him?” Asked Castiel.

“Nope.”

“And yet here you are,” he said. “Talking to him.”

“...Yep.”

“Talking to a complete stranger,” said Castiel. “Like it’s some kind of... some kind of...”

“Normal thing to do?” Asked Meg.

He took her hand and pulled her to the side. “Look, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

“To make friendly conversation with a random person at a fair?”

“Exactly. I think it’s a bad idea.”

“Why?” Asked Meg.

“Yeah, why?” Asked the guy.

“Hey, you aren't supposed to eavesdrop,” Castiel pointed at him. “Look, Meg,” he lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to do this, but I think that guy might be a... vampire.”

Meg snorted, and Vampire Guy snorted too.

“Dude, it’s a costume.”

“Will you stop listening to us,” Castiel snapped.

“Dude,” said Meg. “Do you honestly think this guy is a vampire?”

“I... think he could be,” said Castiel, his voice not quite as decisive as his mind. “I mean, better safe than sorry, right?”

Meg laughed. “You’re crazy.”

“Yeah, you’re crazy, dude,” said Vampire Guy. But at that point, with the way that guy was looking at him, he was becoming more and more sure that he was not crazy.

“I think you should go,” he said, shrugging, and left. Now, he understood why Dean was so adamant he shouldn’t tell other people about monsters – they didn’t believe him, and now his friend thought he was crazy. And what if he was wrong? What if that guy was just someone with a really good costume?

...But what if he wasn’t?

He walked to the other side of the area and stood in line for some stand that had a view of Meg and the guy. He was glad now that he’d been bringing the angel blade with him everywhere since Christmas. He bet no one would notice if he just...

If people bought the fangs, and the machete, and the disappearing lady, why wouldn’t they believe the blade wasn’t real?

And he was right. He let the blade slip out of his sleeve, and no one stared or pointed and screamed.

He looked again at _Heads Will Roll in the Hay - _but Meg wasn’t there.

He looked around. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere.

He slipped out of the line and hurried towards the stand. Where would she have gone? There were so many people around - there was no way to tell. But as he scoured the area, one place stood out as the only secluded corner in the fair.

The House of Mirrors.

At the front of the house was a sign: DO NOT MAKE BABIES HERE.

Ew.

Inside, everything was made of mirrors. His reflection stared back at him from six different angles.

He walked around, but the place seemed to be deserted. He couldn’t really tell how big the room was, or whether he was walking in circles. Meg didn’t seem to be here.

It was almost entirely silent; except, he was starting to hear footsteps. And they were walking right at him – or, at one of his reflections.

“Hello,” he heard someone say behind him. He spun on his heels, and there was a red-eyed woman holding an ax standing a few feet away.

“Nice costume?” He tried. She laughed, lifting her ax.

“You too.” She pointed her chin at his blade.

“Alright,” said Castiel, taking a step back. “See you later.”

It didn’t work. The woman threw the ax at him, and he barely managed to duck to save himself. It hit a mirror behind him, and shards of glass flew everywhere.

“You’ve got to be more careful with that,” he said. The woman charged at him, and he just managed to punch her in the face.

“You’re rude,” she grunted and wrapped her fingers around his throat.

Castiel had never been choked before, and honestly, it was worse than he’d imagined. “If you think that about a punch in the face,” he croaked. “Then you’re not going to love me after this.” And he thrusted his blade into her chest.

She flashed in a bright light, and collapsed on the floor.

Castiel stood up and shook off dust and blood that got caught in his shirt. For a moment, he considered lifting her up and dragging her out of the House of Mirrors to hide her somewhere. But then everyone would see... If he just left her here, she might look like spooky décor.

He had no choice. The smartest thing would be to find Dean, and probably to write _out of order _at the entrance to the House of Mirrors.

He tried to clean some more blood off his shirt, but it was futile. He stepped out of the house, looking for Dean, and ran straight into Meg.

“Hey,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, you were right about the guy.”

“Him being a vampire?” His face lit up.

“No,” said Meg. “Him being a douche. He tried to give me a hickey.”

“Huh.” Because that’s not something a vampire would try to do. “So what did you do?”

“I kicked him in the nuts.”

“Naturally.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Hey, do you want to take a look in here?” She pointed at the house.

“Actually, I’m just coming out,” said Castiel. “Don’t go in there. There’s a big mess.”

“Really? What happened?”

“Someone... Threw up in there.”

“Oh, hell. Yike.”

“Yes,” said Castiel. “Yes. Big mess. You can practically see their whole insides spilled out on the floor.”

“Nasty. They should put up a sign.”

“Yeah.” He saw Dean walking around behind her. “Anyway, don’t go in there. See you later.” And he pushed past her again and ran after Dean.

He took a shortcut and slid between two stands. Only Meg’s vampire friend was standing right there, watching his next victim: a short bald guy with a tuxedo and a bowtie.

“Jared, is it?” said Castiel. “Is your crotch feeling okay?”

The vampire turned to look at him. “What?”

Alright. So he wasn’t so good at the trash talk. But when Jared hissed and charged at him with a mouth full of fangs, he stuck the blade right into his chest.

He emerged from between the stands and hoped to God no one took the same shortcut as he did. He looked around for Dean – and felt someone tap his shoulder.

“Hey,” said Dean.

"Jesus. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Me too!” Dean complained. “I told you not to move.”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” Castiel waved a hand dismissively. “There’s unnatural stuff going on here, isn’t there? Stuff that’s… not natural.”

“How did you know?” Dean asked.

Castiel pursed his lips. “Your shirt has blood on it. And...” His eyes narrowed. “A little bit of brain?”

“Oh, yeah. I just decapitated a vamp in the ladies’ bathrooms.” He grinned at Castiel proudly. “What were you doing?”

“I talked to Meg, then I saw someone kill a vampire, then Meg kicked another vampire in the nuts – I just killed him, he’s right there, and, uh, what are those red eyed things again?”

“Demons?” Dean asked, sounding somewhat worried.

“Yeah, I killed one of those too back that way.” He pointed his thumb backwards.

“You killed a vampire and a demon in the fifteen minutes I was gone?” Dean gaped at him.

“Yeah,” said Castiel. “You know, that blade you gave me really is handy.”

He squared his shoulders proudly at Dean’s amazed expression. Clearly, this wasn’t routine for people who weren’t professional hunters or whatever. Maybe even for them.

Dean’s eyes dropped to his hands. “Aw, no. you got blood on Timothy.”

“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t get brains on him,” he gestured at Dean’s shirt. “What in the heavens is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Dean looked around them. “My guess is, someone offered them a free dinner and they couldn’t resist. Though, I wonder if it was a hunter… I couldn’t find the lady we saw earlier. I think she was a hunter.”

“Couldn’t she have just stumbled upon this place like we did?” Asked Castiel.

“She might’ve… But she might not have, too, you know what I mean?” He looked around again. “I mean, why else would someone send them here? If it wasn’t a hunter then it was such a failure that no human even _died_.”

He supposed that was an embarrassment on the monsters’ part.

Dean shook his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I don’t think we left anything alive. Except, we don’t wanna be here when people start finding the bodies.”

"Okay."

They walked to the exit. Dean, having watched everyone around them suspiciously, looked at him now, then looked away. Then he glanced at him again, smiling, and looked away again.

“What?” Asked Castiel.

“Nothin’,” he said. “Just glad I’m here with you.” And then, like a perfect assbutt, he added, "Now, give Timothy back."


	12. Regarding Dean

“I could get used to this,” said Dean, perched on Castiel’s bed, looking around them.

“Really?” Castiel wrinkled his nose. “What’s harder to resist? The colorless walls or the disturbing lack of personal belongings?”

“The first-hand bed,” Dean grinned. “And the walls might be colorless, but at least they’ve been dyed last in a year that we were already alive in.”

Castiel tapped his fingers on the side of his laptop. “I like your place better,” he said.

“Really?” Dean’s smile shifted into a smirk. “What’s harder to resist? The mold, or the squeaky third-hand dining chairs?”

“You,” he answered and rolled back in his chair to face his desk so that Dean couldn’t see him smile.

“Shut up,” Dean laughed and nudged him with a foot.

He tapped his laptop, trying to focus on math.

“And,” said Dean after a moment, “You have a TV.”

“I do. And I would appreciate it if you used it and turned on your, eh… Lion King, instead of distracting me.”

“Lion King?” Asked Dean. “You mean ESPN.”

“You’d rather watch ESPN than Lion King,” said Castiel doubtfully, raising an eyebrow at his computer.

“Yeah,” said Dean defensively.

“Suit yourself, then.”

Dean _pff-_ed and tapped the remote. A moment later, he heard the news come on.

Alright. Math. Algebraic equations. Not Dean lying back on his bed and hugging Timothy the Destroyer behind him. Not the news reporter.

And not hearing Dean straighten up at something the newscaster was saying.

He turned around to see the headline on the screen: _Five found dead in Valentine’s Day fair last night, case was taken over by the FBI. _

“Is this us?” He asked Dean.

“Should be.”

He stared at the screen, dismayed. “Should we be worried about this?”

“I don’t think so,” Dean said slowly, and the uncertainty in his voice only convinced Castiel otherwise. “If they’re saying the FBI is taking care of it, it probably means some hunter took over the case pretending to be a fed.” Dean’s face lit up. “Maybe it’s the lady we saw at the fair.”

“So this is just what you people do? Go around pretending to be federal agents to get what you want?”

Dean shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“Doesn’t anyone ever get in trouble for that?”

“You have no idea how many Wanted lists I’m on,” Dean smirked.

“That’s hardly a good thing.” He spun back to his desk.

“Sure it isn’t. But if I’m already on it, might as well enjoy it.”

“I’m not even going to argue,” He said and tried to refocus on his schoolwork. Dean shifted on the bed behind him.

“Hey, Cas, I think we need to talk...”

“Can it wait?” He turned around. “Because I really need to get this done.”

Dean’s face fell, just a little. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” He turned back to his laptop. On the bed, Dean grabbed the remote and searched his VOD for Lion King.

“Castiel! Come here.”

_Ugh. _

“What do you want?” He asked Anna. She took him by the arm and dragged him to her desk. He glanced at his phone; class started in three minutes. So, whatever it was, if it was bad, he only had to get through a hundred and eighty seconds of it.

“I found the perfect girl for you,” said Anna. A couple of chairs away, Meg’s head rose from her book. “Her name is Nora. I was thinking about a blind date sort of thing. What do you say?”

“Oh,” he said. Across the room, he saw Dean talk to Ms. Mills, smiling when he caught Castiel’s eye.

“I don’t know,” he said to Anna.

“Why not?”

He looked at Meg, but she just raised an eyebrow at him.

“I, uhh.” The girls watched him attentively. “I get emotionally unavailable during the winter.”

“Oh,” Anna said, and her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Meg nodded slowly.

“So I’m just going to...” He started to back away, but Anna stopped him.

“Hold on.” She looked at Meg and then back at him, and nodded her chin across the room. “You know Dean?”

“Sure,” said Meg, and looked at Castiel deliberately. So deliberately, it was disquieting.

He cleared his throat. “What about him?” He tried to make his voice deep and nonchalant.

“He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?”

Meg and Castiel looked at each other.

“I guess,” said Meg. “If your type is hot but dumb.”

“He’s not stupid,” said Castiel, too loud, too fast. The girls stared at him. “He showed me his SAT scores,” he added nervously.

Totally fixed it.

He was pretty sure Dean never took the SATs. But that was beside the point.

Anna looked over at Dean and tilted her head, checking him out, and biting her bottom lip.

He knew he should probably be jealous. But all he wanted to do was kick her shin a little.

Well, if ‘a little’ meant ‘enough to make her shout _ow_’.

“You think I should ask him out?” She asked.

“I don’t think he’s into redheads,” Castiel shook his head.

“Huh,” said Meg, looked directly at him, and narrowed her eyes.

“How do you know?” Asked Anna.

“Yeah, how do you know?” Asked Meg, folding her arms slowly over her chest.

Castiel leaned against a table that was behind him. “You’re right,” he shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “What do I know? You should go for it.”

Anna put her hands on her hips. “I’m doing it.” And she made her way toward Dean.

“You’re a cold son of a bitch,” said Meg once she was gone, looking at him with a mixture of admiration and contempt.

“What? I could be wrong.” It hung between them as they watched Anna approach Dean. They smiled at each other, and she said something. Then he touched the back of his neck and said something back. Her face fell a little. He said something that seemed to be a question, his eyebrows rising slightly, and she pointed back at Meg and Castiel. Dean nodded, and Castiel could make out the _sorry _on his lips. When she left, he looked back at them, forehead creased, and mouthed a _what? _

“So,” said Meg. “Are you guys dating?”

“Anna and I?” Asked Castiel, feeling his muscles tense. He tried to play it off by crossing his arms over his chest, mirroring her nonchalant posture. “If we were, I think it’s safe to say that her interest in Dean just ended it.”

“Mhm.”

Phew. He was out of the danger zone.

“I meant you and Dean.”

Or not.

“Where did you get that from?” He asked, but quickly realized it was a mistake, since her question was clearly based on selective observation. “We’re not,” he added.

“Aha,” said Meg. “Is he also emotionally unavailable during the winter?”

“Really, we’re not,” he said flatly.

“Alright.” She sounded skeptical.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

“If you say so,” she shrugged, frowning at Dean, who was making his way towards them now.

“What, then?”

“Nothing,” she said. “But if you’re not dating, then I think he has a really serious crush on you.”

“What... uhrm.” Castiel touched his hair, then put his palms back on the table he was leaning on, then crossed his arms again. He cleared his throat. “What makes you think that?”

“He keeps staring at you in this longing way,” she said. “The way you stare at burgers while standing in line at the cafeteria.” She shifted suddenly. “Oh, hey, loser.”

“What are we talking about?” Dean smiled and leaned against a table in front of them.

“Burgers,” said Meg coolly. “What did Anna want?”

“She said you guys told her she should ask me out?” He said, and gave Castiel this look that was smiling and furrowing his eyebrows at the same time, like he was both amused and perplexed.

“And?” Asked Meg deliberately.

“And I told her I’m trying to focus on work right now.”

“See?” Castiel looked at her. “He’s trying to focus on work.”

Meg let out an exhale. “I think I’m going crazy.”

Castiel glanced at the front of the classroom. “Is there a reason class hasn’t started?”

Dean followed his look all the way to Ms. Mills, and scratched his elbow. 

"I think they're waiting for something," he mumbled. 

"Oh my God," said Meg. "Please don't tell me they're bringing out the TV. I can't stand another class on satanic rituals. Some people are Satanists. Get over it. It's not like the gates of hell are opening."

But Dean looked too nervous for it to be a satanic rituals class. It seemed like he thought it was something entirely different. And surely, a moment later, Ms. Mills made eye contact with him, tilting her chin towards him and waving him over. 

He took a last, nervous look at Castiel, waving him goodbye listlessly, and followed their teacher out of the room.

"You know, it's not like you lost a kidney."

Castiel looked up from the same spot in the floor he'd been staring at for the past five minutes. "What?"

"He'll come back," Meg said.

"I told you there's nothing going on between us." The picture of Dean right before he left the class kept floating up in his mind, like a dead fish that wouldn’t sink. He couldn't shake off the feeling that something was wrong. 

"Okay," Meg rolled her eyes. "So you're the kind of really good friends who everyone thinks are a couple. Whatever-"

"Who else thinks that?" He interrupted her. She dropped her feet from the table to lean forward and glare at him. "Me. I'm everyone to you."

He forced a small snort. "How come?"

"I'm the only other friend you two have got. Therefore, my opinion matters one hundred percent."

"Well, it's wrong."

She huffed. "Can we get lunch now? Or are you scared he wouldn’t be able to find you if we moved?"

Castiel looked at her silently. 

"Ugh. You are, aren't you? Because, you know, we could put a bell around your neck, or you could just meow."

"No I’m not. I'll just... I'll just text him."

"Sure," she said under her breath. "God forbid we spend one lunch break without him."

She stood up and stretched a hand for him to grab. He took it. 

It had to be something serious. Ms. Mills was in on it. Maybe it was about Sam. Or another family member. Maybe it was about his car.

"So what's up?" She asked as they walked. 

No, that couldn't be it. Dean would have fainted on the spot if something happened to his car.

Meg poked his arm. "Dude."

"I'm listening," he said. Or, at least, he had thought she was speaking.

"Yeah?" Meg sounded doubtful. "Then what did I just say?"

"Uh... Something about Dean?"

"No. That's what your brain was saying. I was saying, there's a good spot by Anna's table."

They set their trays on the table, and Meg rested her black leather bag on a chair. Was everything she owned black and leathery?

He paused his worrying to watch her for a moment – her wavy dark hair, the careless way she was sprawled on her chair. There was something irresistible about her. If he didn't have a boyfriend, she'd probably be rejecting him for the twelve-hundredth time right about now. 

"I'm going to the bathroom," she said. "Don't eat my cupcake." 

"Why would I do that?" He asked, but now that she said it, it was hard to resist the urge. 

So it was either steal the cupcake, or lean back in his chair and scan the room for Dean. And the second option never got old.

Eventually, he did spot Dean at the entrance. When Dean saw him wave, he hurried over to their table without grabbing any food. 

"'Sup," he said as he sat down next to Castiel.

Castiel adjusted in his seat to be facing him. "Where have you been?"

"Just a quick trip to the principal's office," Dean answered. His smile had an edge. 

"What's wrong?" Asked Castiel, and he could feel his chest tighten now that he said it, like admitting it out loud made it a reality. Something was wrong. He could see it in Dean's eyes when he uttered the words. 

"It can wait," Dean said tightly. 

"At least tell me what this is about," asked Castiel. "Or are we just supposed to move on and talk about cupcakes?"

"Ooh, there's cupcakes?" Dean glanced around. 

"Dean."

He sighed, looking at his hands. "It's pretty bad. I don't think this is the best place to talk about it."

"Come on," Castiel leaned in and touched his arm, lowering his voice. "I'm worried."

"Alright," Dean exhaled. "Since this is the most attention you've given me since finals started..."

He leaned back away from Dean. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean pursed his lips and shrugged. "Just feels like lately you've been having more of a relationship with your history textbook than with me."

Castiel looked away. He didn’t even know what to say to that. Someone slumped on the chair beside Castiel’s, and they both startled.

“’Sup,” said Meg. Her eyes jumped from one of them to the other. “What? Don’t give me that look. I waited for you to be done fighting before I came over.”

“Didn’t do a very good job,” Dean muttered, his eyes on the table.

She glared at him. “I got scared you’d eat my muffin.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Meg. I’m this close to doing that.”

She grabbed her muffin and ate it.

“So, it would be pretty neat if we went to the same college, huh?” She said to Castiel. He tried to nod convincingly. From the corner of his eye, he could see the anger in Dean’s face wilt and become something that was more pained than it was anything else.

He waited for Dean to call all afternoon. And around seven p.m., he did call. 

"Hey," he said. "Can you come over?"

"I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"Studying?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

He heard a sigh on the other end. "There's something kind of important we need to talk about."

And now, the last thing he wanted to do was come over. He had that sinking feeling that going to Dean's house meant coming back from there regretting having gone.

But whatever it was, Dean was his best friend, and he should be there for him.

"Sure," he said, and his stomach twisted. He hung up the phone and grabbed his car keys. 

Dean opened the door before he even had the chance to knock.

“You’re here!” He said, and pulled him inside.

“I’m here,” said Castiel, with less enthusiasm, and a certain amount of concern. "What's going on?"

"Sit down," said Dean. They sat on his bed. "How are you feeling?"

"A little confused, but..." He looked at Dean. "Are you okay?"

"I'm great." The smile that rose on Dean's face was thoroughly unconvincing. "How are you?"

"You already asked me that."

"Right. Right." Dean scratched his arm. "So what do you wanna do? You wanna watch a movie? You wanna play video games? You want dinner? We can make dinner."

"I was thinking we should talk," Castiel said cautiously. "That's the reason you invited me."

"We can talk. What do you want to talk about? We can talk about birds. Did you know birds are the descendants of dinosaurs?"

“Yes,” said Castiel slowly. “Why are you... like this?”

“Like what?” Dean asked. “I’m normal.” He leaned in to kiss Castiel, but stopped before their lips touched. He shook his head and then tilted it slightly, going in again.

The doorbell rang.

“Someone's at the door,” Dean stood up abruptly. “Thank god someone's at the door.”

He opened the door to a middle aged lady. 

"Dean!” She called. She was blond, and peeked inside curiously. “How great to see you."

"Marcy," he said nervously. "What are you doing here? Um, come in." He moved for her to be able to walk in. "Cas, this is my neighbor from the first floor." He gestured at Castiel. "That's Cas. He's my..." They exchanged quick glances.

"Accountant," Castiel finished. 

"You have an accountant." The lady looked him up and down. "And he's... twenty?"

"Eighteen," Castiel corrected. Dean sent a glare his way. 

"Yeah," he said to the lady. "Yeah. They say he's some kind of a genius. And you know how the market is nowadays..."

She laughed and placed a hand on his arm. "Oh, well, Dean is a wonderful young man," she said to Castiel. "Always bringing us cookies on holidays. And taking such good care of our little Timmy when we go out of town." She shook her head at Dean warmly. "God, how Timmy loves you. Bless his little heart."

Castiel looked at him. “You babysit?”

“Timmy’s their dog,” Dean explained.

“Listen, I just came here to let you know it's that weird guy from apartment seven's birthday in two weeks and we're all pitching in twenty bucks to buy him a present."

"Oh, Benny?" Asked Dean, taking his wallet out. "I love that guy."

_Really? _Castiel crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing.

"Really?" Asked Marcy. "I've always felt like there was just something off about him. But, you know, he's done so much for everyone in the building, we have to give back."

"Yeah, we do," said Dean, even though he sounded a lot less dissatisfied about it than her. He handed her a twenty and walked her to the door, waving her goodbye. 

"So," said Castiel once she was gone. "Holiday cookies, huh?"

Dean turned around to face him. "Accountant?" He asked "Why did you have to say accountant?"

"Well," said Castiel, somewhat blindsided by Dean's tone. "I couldn't say boyfriend, could I?"

"Why not?" 

"I don't know," he said defensively. "People... frown upon that."

“Alright, well.” Dean took his hand. “Can we talk?”

“Talk like normal people, or talk as in be weird and jumpy like you were before?”

“Talk like normal,” Dean smiled.

“Yeah.”

They sat down on the bed again.

“So.” Dean’s fingers tapped on the bed nervously. “Do you wanna hear more about dinosaurs?” His voice came out a little high.

“You’re being weird again,” Castiel pointed out.

“Right. Um. Look.” Dean made a clearly forced effort to make eye contact. “Here goes.” He took a breath. “The school found out I lied about my past. They’re in the process of making a decision, but it’ll probably end in kicking me out.”

Something plummeted in Castiel’s stomach like a heavy rock through water. “What will you do?” He asked finally.

“Leave town.” Dean lifted his shoulders, and let them fall. “Move somewhere no one knows my name, like we always do when that happens. Somewhere closer to Sam, maybe.”

Castiel took a deep breath. It felt like something was pressing on his chest. “So this… This isn’t the first time something like that happens.”

“No, it isn’t.” Dean let out half a smile. “Just the first time I... got attached.”

He patted Castiel’s hand, as if to say _this isn’t so bad – _in the way that people say it knowing they don’t really mean it. Then he opened his mouth, and closed it.

There wasn’t much else to say.


	13. You Can't Handle the Truth

A decision was made within the week. 

Dean was scheduled for a meeting at the principal's office, which was next-level serious. Plus, it was at four in the afternoon, which meant he was missing his Thursday shift in the escape room. The fact that he barely seemed to be bothered by missing work only worried Castiel more.

He waited the extra hour with Dean, sitting on the railings of the school parking lot in the gentle April sun. And when Meg saw them, she joined. 

She didn’t ask any questions while they waited; she seemed to sense the atmosphere. But when the meeting started and Dean was out of earshot, she grew more relaxed.

“What’s he in for?” She pointed her foot at the closed door in front of them. They were sitting on a couple of padded chairs in hallway, right outside the office.

“It’s not really my business to tell,” Castiel answered.

“But it’s serious.” It was part assertion, part question. He nodded tightly.

“And how do you feel about it?” She asked quietly.

He looked away. “I’m not his girlfriend.”

“That's for sure,” she said saltily. “But he’s still your best friend.”

He was doing his best not to think about that. If Dean was kicked out, he had nothing to do about it. And if Dean decided to move out of town, well, he’d understand, and he’d have nothing to do about that either. And if he had nothing to do about anything, there was no point in wallowing in it. He’d just have to shove it all inside and never let his feelings show, because feelings were pointless.

Feelings were pointless, and his eyes weren’t stinging.

“He’s your best friend, too.” His voice didn’t come out quite as deep as he was trying to make it, and he cleared his throat. “Isn’t he? You always hang out with us.”

Meg shook her head, and she was looking away, too. “Not him.”

He wasn’t paying attention to her answer. He looked around; there were class photos hanging on the walls in an outstretched line. It wasn’t long before his picture would be on one of those; just a couple of months. Maybe by then Dean would be long gone.

The thought tore a pit in his stomach.

“Are you going to the play tomorrow night?” Asked Meg.

Castiel looked at her, trying to keep his face smooth. “What play?”

“The school play. Ms. Mills said if we don’t go she’ll hunt us down and behead us because the juniors worked really hard on it.”

“Then I guess I’m going,” he said. “I’ve grown quite fond of my head.”

She smiled.

“So what’s it about?” He asked.

“Well, originally, it was about this failed relationship between a couple, but I guess that got old pretty fast because they changed the script and now it’s these two guys being gay with each other.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he let out dryly.

Meg tapped her fingertips on the side of her chair. “Nope.”

There was the sound of chairs dragging across the floor behind the door. A few moments passed. And then the door opened, and Dean walked out.

They stood up in a rush, and Dean waved his hand at them. His shoulders were tense. Steps calculated.

And his eyes.

Unmistakable relief in his eyes.

“Good news?” Asked Castiel, and everything faded into the background.

“Good news,” Dean grinned, and crashed into him. For half a second, he could only feel relieved. And then he froze, and Dean froze in his arms, too.

They took a step back from each other, and looked at Meg. Her expression made it clear that she found the embrace a little too intimate to be friendly.

Then Dean stepped towards her with his arms spread open.

“Dude.” She took a step back.

“Too much?”

“Yep,” Meg said.

“Alright.” He patted Castiel’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Asked Meg.

“I’m... giving Cas a ride home,” said Dean.

Meg’s eyes narrowed. She looked from one of them to the other. “Is that because he’s weird about bringing his fancy car to school?”

“What?” Dean smiled at him confusedly. “Is that why you don’t like taking your car to school?”

“And why he doesn’t like bringing people into his house.”

“What?” Dean repeated. “Is that why I didn’t see your house for half a year?” He gasped. “Oh my god, that’s why you didn’t wanna go to your house last year and you made me show you my Shrek swamp. Oh my god.”

“Don’t we have more important things to talk about?” Castiel muttered.

“Yeah, I’m gonna take off,” said Meg, and he suspected she sensed this was another kind of intimate moment. “I have an exam to study for, and instead I’ve been wasting an hour and a half sitting on my ass waiting for you.”

Or maybe that.

“Need a ride?” Dean asked her.

“Did you just offer to do something nice for me, Winchester?”

He shrugged.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

“Alright,” said Castiel fifteen minutes later, when they were finally alone. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or are we waiting for the apocalypse?”

“Too late for that,” said Dean, taking a turn into his neighborhood.

“What?”

He shook his head. “There was a lot of reprimanding,” he said, “And a lot of explaining, on my part.”

“Did you tell the truth?”

“More or less. I mean, when do I ever really tell the truth...” He chuckled, and glanced at Castiel’s unamused expression. “Except with you. I always tell you the truth.”

“And the principal was just fine with it?”

“Well, there was some more reprimanding, and then she said that I’m still young, and she doesn’t see why my good intentions should be what ends up ruining my life. And that she didn’t wanna be responsible for that.” He pulled into a parking spot.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” He switched the car into Park. “So... She said, if I want, she’s decided to give me the opportunity to finish my diploma here.”

“What?” said Castiel.

“Yeah. What.”

“What did you say?”

“Of course I said yes. I’ll figure out the details later. But I mean, I’ve been pretending to know the material for seven months already, so yeah, I’ll have to work twice as hard as anyone else, but at least I have a starting point.”

“That’s incredible.”

“Yeah.” Dean smiled, and rested his head on his headrest. He reached out for Castiel’s hand.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” said Castiel.

“Me too.”

“I guess now we both have finals to study for,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s weird." The way Dean was looking at him made him believe, for the first time this week, that things might just work out. 

A moment passed.

“Let’s go.”

“Oh, so you mean you’re not enjoying sitting here staring at each other like two idiots in love?” Dean smiled.

“I don’t know about you,” he said and stepped out of the car. “But I’m not an idiot.”

They studied across from each other at the dining table for about an hour before Dean put his pencil down and said,

“So I’ve been thinking.”

He waited for Castiel to look up.

“I’ve been thinking about June.”

“Why...?” Asked Castiel.

“Well. You know.”

“Graduation?” 

“Nope," said Dean.

“National Oceans Month?”

“Actually, yeah, but not where I was going with this.”

“Okay, you’ve got to give me a clue here if you want me to understand what you mean.”

“Our one year anniversary,” said Dean. “You butt.”

“Oh.” He supposed he was a butt. “But that’s not until the twentieth.”

“Right.” Dean started to smile. “But I thought we could do something nice.”

“That requires two months of planning?”

“Maybe.”

“Like what?” He asked.

“I dunno. Like a trip?”

“Oh - to the museum on the other side of town?”

“I was thinking more like somewhere that has a beach,” said Dean.

“We can go camping.”

“Oof.” Dean scrunched his nose.

“Or not,” said Castiel. “Okay. Whatever you want. I’m in.”

“Nice,” Dean smiled.

He went back to his books. It was maybe thirty minutes before Dean spoke again.

“How many shifts are you taking next week?”

“I’ll check later,” he answered without looking up from his workbook.

“Hopefully we have some together,” Dean said.

“Yeah.”

A moment later: “So you really don’t remember how many?”

He looked up. “No. I’ll check later,” he said slowly.

“’Kay,” Dean did the finger guns at him. “Gotcha.” But he couldn’t go another five minutes before speaking again. “You think it’s time for dinner?” He looked at his watch. “I think it’s time for dinner.”

Castiel pushed his book sideways and put his head in his hands. “It’s not even seven.”

“Right,” said Dean. “But science is so _boring_.”

“Boring or not, we still have to do it.”

“Alright,” said Dean, and it came off defensive. He stood up. “I’m gonna make coffee.”

“Sorry,” said Castiel. “I just really need to study.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Dean muttered behind him.

“It’s kind of hard to focus when you find a new conversation topic every five minutes.” But as he said it, he regretted it. He closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to fight.

He felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder. “I don’t wanna fight.”

“Me neither.” He stood up and put his arm around Dean’s waist, kissing him.

“Let’s not fight,” Dean said against his lips.

“Works for me.”

He sat back down, and Dean filled the kettle. He got a message.

“Who is it?” Asked Dean.

“Meg. She sent me some video entitled ‘Dog Befriending Parrot’.”

“Oh my God," Dean leaned in to look at the screen. "You have to open it.”

Castiel turned to him. "I don't get you. You need to study too, now."

"Yeah, but it’s not like we can’t take breaks,” said Dean. “It doesn't have to be ten hours without stop."

Castiel pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. "It's barely been _two_," he muttered. This wasn’t a fight. They were not fighting.

Dean pulled backwards defensively. "Will you chill? I can't even say one sentence without you holding it against me."

He stood up to face Dean, who was holding the kettle in his hand. “Why do you keep saying things like that?” He snapped.

“Because it’s true. And you’re too busy with all your studying to even see it.” Dean slammed the kettle on the counter. “I feel like I have to fight to even have a moment with you because school stuff is always more important. You can’t exactly call someone a boyfriend who you only exchange a sentence with once in three days.” His voice carried across the apartment, and the louder it got, the more stinging the silence around them became. “So if I’m not your boyfriend, what am I to you? A house plant? A fancy soap kit your aunt brought you for the holidays that just sits on your shelf waiting for you to look its way?”

“Clearly, you’re not a house plant, or a soap kit,” said Castiel, and he didn't even care his voice came out bitter. “Because if you were, you wouldn’t talk as much.”

Dean seemed to reach the point where he was too angry to shout, or even speak. He covered his face with his hands, breathing slowly and deliberately. And through his hands, he said: "It feels like the longer we're together the harder it gets.”

Castiel already felt his chest flood with a thick, horrible feeling, like he was sinking into hot lava knowing he had no way to stop it from suffocating him. But Dean said one more thing.

“But I'm not willing to let go.” He shook his head and dropped his hands to look at Castiel. “I'm not.”

He sank back into his chair. “I can study at home if you can't stand me like this,” he said. “I can study in the library, or with Meg. I can study with... with April.”

Dean’s expression broke into a smile, and he let out a huff that turned into a short laughter.

“Good to know you're taking this seriously.”

“I'm sorry,” said Dean, still smiling. “Just the thought of you studying with two girls who want to smoosh booties with you... If you think I’m a nightmare, try doing that.”

Castiel shook his head. “I don't think you're a nightmare. I love you. I'm here because I wouldn't rather be anywhere else.”

“Wouldn't kill you to say it once in a while,” Dean muttered to himself.

“I say it,” he protested.

“_Out loud?_”

“I... think it.” He sighed, and took Dean’s hand. “Are we seriously fighting about school? It's over in less than three months.”

“No.” Dean was looking down.

There was something else.

“What?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t wanna say.”

Castiel tugged on his hand. “Is it something I should know?”

“I wanna say no,” Dean smiled faintly. “But probably, yeah.”

“Then what is it?”

Dean took a breath. “It... It makes me feel worthless.”

Castiel looked at him blankly, his lips parting. “What?”

“It makes me feel stupid. And lazy. You value education so much, you care so much about school, and I’m a fucking dropout.” He breathed in sharply, and looked away. “And I get it, okay? I am all those things. And school is important. And every time you go into your little burrow and become this weird study hermit it just reminds me how little you must think of me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he replied. “Dean, do you really think I’d think any less of you because of something like that?”

Dean shrugged. “Everybody would, wouldn’t they?”

“No. Of course not. Look – you got through almost a year of high school not having studied it, and still managed to _teach _it to other people.”

“Kind of sucked at it,” Dean huffed.

“You did twice as much as anyone else. And now you were asked to start the whole process again and get your diploma, and instead of backing out and leaving it behind you, you stepped up to it. Dean - you’re not as smart as everyone else. You’re _smarter_. And you’ve got it all together.”

He snorted.

“But you do,” said Castiel. “You had nothing, and somehow you managed to rent an apartment, support your family and successfully lie to everyone you know about your identity to protect what you have.”

“Successfully?” Dean looked at him with half a smile. “Not quite.”

“I have everything,” Castiel continued. “And I need to work ten times as hard as you to get where you are. If anything – I’m the failure. You make things work no matter how impossible the circumstances are, and I screw things up no matter how hard I try.”

Dean squeezed his hand. “You’re good, man. You just don't see it. So let’s settle on neither of us being a failure.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel this way,” said Castiel.

“And I’m sorry I called you a weird study hermit.” Dean’s smile reached all the way up to his eyes. “And also for all the other stuff.”

“So we’re good?”

Dean patted his hand. “We’re good.”

“Alright, now let’s go back to studying.” Dean opened his mouth, his eyes widening slightly. “I’m kidding,” said Castiel. “But since you don’t have to leave school and skip town, maybe we can... celebrate?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Ooh,” Dean clapped his hands together. “Eat all the ice cream in the fridge and continue watching Legally Blonde because we never finished it on my birthday?”

“I was thinking make out on your bed, but sure.”

Dean checked his watch, and looked at him. “If we hurry, there’s time for both.”

The school play was at seven the next evening. Everyone got pamphlets – and it seemed Meg was right. The cover had a picture of two guys singing on a stage. It looked pretty gay. And a little spooky.

“How did last night go?” Meg asked Dean as they picked their seats.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“You looked pretty relieved coming out of the principal’s office. I figured it was a special occasion.”

“Oh. Right. I just ended up going home and having a huge fight with...” He glanced at Castiel. “Um. My neighbor.”

“Huh.” Meg propped her head on her fist. “I didn’t realize you were so close with your neighbor. What could you possible fight with your neighbor about?”

“I’m not,” Dean said pointedly. “I was just... being too noisy for him. And then instead of apologizing, I blamed him.”

“Well, maybe he was being an ass about it.” She turned to Castiel. “What do you think, Clarence?”

She was pure evil.

“Definitely being an ass,” he answered, not looking up from his pamphlet. Dean looked away, at the stage, resting his chin in the palm of his hand to cover his smile.

“It worked out,” he said through his fingers.

The lights dimmed. On the stage appeared a black-haired guy, and started singing.

_I'm so in love and nothing's gonna change it_

_I fall for him each day and I can't shake it._

Dean’s knee moved to lean against his.

_The way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he looks at me_

_A gentle type of pain a bitter fantasy._

He shifted in his seat to look at Dean. But when Dean looked back, smiling in the dark, everyone around them looking up at the stage, he just shook his head and turned away.

_And here he comes, so strong, my man, my second heartbeat._

_He doesn't have a clue how good his heart is._

_I never wanna see him go, just stay and touch me_

_There's nothing I won't do for you, my Gatsby._

How do you express your feelings without opening yourself up to the possibility you might get hurt? How do you tell a person, without fear that your feelings will only end up causing you pain, without fear that he might take your heart and never give it back, _'I will let planets burn for you?'_

How do you say it and know he believes you?

The play went on, and all he could do was lean his shoulder against Dean’s in the dark, and feel the tension in Dean’s shoulders ease at the touch.

“Hold on,” said Dean towards the end of the play. The lead roles were standing very close to each other, caught in a heated duet. “Is this supposed to happen?” He asked when they kissed.

“Yes,” said Meg. “Don’t be so heteronormative, Dean.”

“Yeah,” said Castiel. "What she said."

“Okay. Chill, you guys.”

The play ended. When they walked out, Castiel said,

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure, dawg,” said Meg.

“I meant Dean.”

“And please don’t ever say ‘dawg’ again,” Dean added.

“I don’t know what that means,” said Castiel.

“See, you’re confusing him.”

“When am I not?” Said Meg. “But fine. See you, losers.”

Castiel led them to a deserted spot by the parking lot.

“I think your trip idea was good," he said to a street light they were standing by. "We should do that.”

“Is... that why you led me to a dark, deserted corner of the parking lot, or is the murdering just about to start?”

He let out a long exhale. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

“Oh. Okay. Go ahead.”

It was forcing-eye-contact time. And he did it like a big boy.

“I love you,” he said. “Even when I’m mad. Even when I’m far away. Even when I don't say it, when I study, when I’m in a family dinner – I never stop loving you. I love you when I wake up, and when I go to sleep. I love you when you're being an asshole and I have to put up with you, and I love you when I’m being an asshole and you have to put up with me. I know I never say it, but that's not because I don't feel it. It’s just...” He paused to breathe. It was more difficult than he’d accounted for. It took a minute to steady his breath. “It's just hard. Now, this has been enough feelings for ten years, so we're done here.” He nodded decisively, as if it would strengthen his point.

Dean smiled. “It’s cute how enormous the effort it took you to say that is.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“I thought you didn’t want to be feelsy anymore.”

“I don’t. You’re right. Don’t say anything unless it’s mean,” he said.

Dean nudged an elbow at his side. “Love you too, Cas.”

Castiel glared at him.

“Okay, okay. I won’t be feelsy. Let’s go.”

They walked to the car.

“Really, though,” Dean said. “Never stop? That’s gotta be an overestimation. I mean, you can’t possibly love me when I’m being an asshole."

“You’d be surprised,” he muttered. “It’s hard, but I manage.”

“Ha.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked sideways at Dean. “You're the only person in the world I would go to a Valenween fair or to a Mr. Rock Man show for.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Not even your dad?”

“Especially not my dad,” he said. “I wouldn't do anything that might make him talk about his bisexual experiences in the eighties again.”

Dean kicked a gravel stone. “Not even meg?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you intimidated by her?”

“Of course I’m intimidated by her. She's perfectly intimidating.”

Castiel nodded. “She kind of is.”

“Not helping, Cas.”

“Yeah. Well. She's not you.”

Dean huffed. “I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”

“You’re a butt,” he answered.

“Yes. Yes I am," Dean said, and took his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The school play I'm talking about is a Carry On fic I made last year, so [here's the link](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21118703/chapters/50254835) if you wanna take a look. It's mostly got gayness, singing and salty people.


	14. Shut Up, Dr. Phil

Time passed, and Castiel was getting better at not letting schoolwork consume his life. It wasn’t so bad with Dean studying alongside of him, as thin as his patience was. One week before high school would officially be behind them, having only one exam to go, Dean was beyond excited.

“I’m going to get my diploma,” he grinned at Castiel. “Can you believe?”

It was actually pretty endearing.

“I’m very happy for you,” Castiel smiled. _I’m so proud of you my heart might burst _felt a little too personal. Anna and Meg were right behind them. Dean’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the table.

At this point, everyone knew he was getting his diploma. Everyone knew about his fake resume, and the effect it had on his reputation was baffling to Castiel. He’d become an enigma to the class, and their interest doubled when he wouldn’t say anything about his real past. He said once: “I could hold decades under torture without submitting, so I’m sure as hell not telling you whether I liked pickles as a kid no matter how many times you ask me, Karen.” Castiel really thought he was right.

Still, it didn’t stop the occasional student from nagging him about it, and Meg always seemed to be there to skeptically challenge any lie and half-lie he told. She was relentless.

Now, getting up to go to lunch, Dean turned to her:

“You coming?”

“Yep,” she said. There was something about her expression that Castiel didn’t like; it was cunning. “This loser wanted to ask you something, though.” She nodded her chin at Anna.

Anna gave her a look that was both _what did you do to me? _And _I’m going to strangle you_. But Meg shrugged and moved out of her way to hop up on Dean and Castiel’s table.

Anna walked nervously past her to where Dean was standing.

“I was just thinking.” She clutched her notebooks very tightly. “Prom is in a week, and...”

“You’re ruthless,” Castiel muttered at Meg from his chair. She looked down on him, raising an eyebrow.

“Why? He might say yes.”

“Actually,” Dean said, looking intermittently between Anna and her. “I don’t think I’ll be in town. Cas wanted to see Wayward Sisters, since he’s moving there next fall, so I was gonna give him a ride.”

“What?” April, having passed by them, halted suddenly. On his way out, Andy ran right into her. “You won’t be here for prom?”

“That’s the plan,” Dean said, and now there was a crowd of five listening to him. “Why?”

“No reason.” But there was a reason. She seemed extremely on edge.

“If you’re going to Wayward Sisters,” said Meg in her cunning voice. “Can I come? Since I’m going there too next year.”

“You don’t want to come,” Castiel blurted out. “His car is garbage.”

“Hey,” Dean protested.

“Really. Garbage.”

“I think I can handle a little garbage,” said Meg. Castiel glared at her, and her eyes narrowed at him.

She wouldn’t stop until she exposed them, and she wasn’t backing down.

But neither was he.

“Point is,” said Dean, looking at the two of them hesitantly. “Prom is stupid. And we won’t be here.”

"Can't you go another day?" Andy asked.

Dean shrugged and looked at Castiel.

And... Did he actually want to go to prom? Not really. But going with Dean meant no pressure. It probably meant leaning against a wall and making fun of everyone’s fancy clothes, eating fiften cookies until their stomachs hurt and then regretting having eaten fifteen cookies. That didn’t sound so bad.

He turned to Meg. “Are you going?” On the other side of their little circle, Dean’s shoulders sagged. Meg pulled hers up.

“I am if you are.”

“I guess we can make the trip another day,” he said to Dean.

“Awesome,” said April.

“Yeah,” said Anna.

“Dope,” said Andy.

“Ya’ll are losers,” said Meg.

“So what car do you ride?” Asked Andy, and everyone turned to Dean.

“It’s a ’67 Chevy Impala.” His smile could not be wider, now. Castiel could swear he loved that car more than he loved any human being that wasn’t his baby brother.

“Whoa. Do you have a picture?”

“Sure,” said Dean. “Babe, can you pass me my phone?”

Castiel almost reached out.

He stopped himself just in time. Everyone froze. Everyone stared at Dean, who wore a perfectly blank expression, realizing his mistake a moment too late. Meg’s jaw tightened, and she looked at the two phones beside her on the table. Then she looked at Castiel.

There was no one except the two of them who could reach the phone. She knew. She knew it was him.

Castiel cleared his throat. But before he could say anything, Meg turned stiffly to Dean.

“Sure,” she said flatly. She looked at Dean. Then she looked at the phones. “...Which one’s yours?”

Castiel reached for his. “This one’s mine,” he said. “So it must be the other one.”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” said Dean. They all sounded extremely uncomfortable, and not particularly convincing. The group was silent for a moment.

“This is awkward,” Andy said finally. “Show me the picture another time, man.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, and he left.

Meg hopped off the table and grabbed Dean’s hand. “Let’s go, lover boy.”

Dean hesitated. “Actually, maybe I should stay...” His voice faded under her glare. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Castiel hurried after them.

“Thank you so much,” Dean said once they were out of earshot of anyone inside.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Castiel.

Meg crossed her arms over her chest. “You lied to me. Like two hundred times.” She glanced at Castiel, and quickly looked away. Her expression was sealed.

Funny how sometimes the expressions that tried the hardest to say nothing were the ones that said the most.

“Yeah, but... you get why,” said Dean.

“Sorry,” Castiel mumbled, his eyes on the floor.

He didn’t owe her anything. It wasn’t like she was so informative about her own private life. And still, he couldn’t help but feel bad. The kind of bad that set camp in his stomach and wouldn’t move.

And he couldn’t help but think that maybe – if nothing had happened between Dean and him...

But none of that mattered now.

“I feel really bad about Meg.”

“She’ll get over being in a fake relationship with you,” said Castiel. He leaned on Dean’s kitchen counter and sipped from his coffee. “She only has to do it for a week.”

He was taking a break. Dean was studying. Their last exam was the next afternoon, which meant they had tomorrow morning off.

Which meant he was staying over. That was his life now. It couldn’t get any better.

Or, at least, for the next three months it couldn’t. After that, he would be moving to a town over an hour away, and Dean would most likely forget what he looked like.

“I meant about lying,” Dean said. “Did she tell you anything?”

“No. And I don’t think she will in the next seven to ten business days.”

“That was some serious ass-covering she did, though. We should send her a fruit basket or something.”

“She would hate that,” he said, and Dean smiled.

“I dunno, she seemed pretty upset.” Then he looked at Castiel, and looked away.

The same way Meg did.

The silence that fell between them was unsettling.

And then Castiel said, “Do you want me to quiz you?” And everything seemed to go back to normal.

That was, until Dean started browsing for ‘Dog and owner reunited’ videos online.

“You have the attention span of a two year old,” Castiel said to him.

“Hey, look at this.”

“Dean, I really think we should go back to...”

“No, seriously, look.” Dean tugged his hand. He pointed at an ad on the computer. “Doesn’t she look familiar?”

“Psychologist Near You?” Castiel read. He squinted at the blond woman on the screen. “She does look familiar.”

“I dunno,” Dean said, but then his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that the lady we saw killing monsters at the fair?”

“Maybe she just really looks like her.”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“What? Maybe she does,” said Castiel. “And even if it is her – so what?”

“Nothin’,” said Dean. “Just weird that this is the second time we randomly run into her.”

“Or it’s just a coincidence.”

“A weird coincidence,” said Dean.

“I wouldn’t say it’s weird,” he answered. “It’s plausible, even.”

“Fine. Let’s get back to work.”

They went back to work.

“Can’t believe this is over in a week,” said Dean.

“Me neither,” he said. He could barely remember a time where he wasn’t in school. It was hard to imagine being out – getting a job, being a grown up. Having a life. He hadn’t spent much time preparing for that part; maybe because he couldn’t picture it at all. It was like a fleeting dream, not something that felt like it might actually come true one day.

But there it was, coming true. And in some ways it was exciting. In other ways, it wasn’t any easier than life as it was.

Leaving his father. Leaving Dean. Leaving this town.

“And our anniversary trip,” Dean added.

“Yeah,” said Castiel slowly. “Our anniversary trip.”

“Probably should’ve planned for that a little earlier,” Dean laughed awkwardly.

They’d decided to take this trip two months ago, and they hadn’t planned for it at all. He hadn’t even opened a chrome tab. He doubted Dean even had a pancake syrup flavor plan for the first diner they’d stop at. Dean always had a pancake syrup flavor plan.

“We’ll figure it out,” he answered.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Yeah, sure we will.”

“We’ll have so much fun.”

“So much fun,” Dean said.

He flipped the page in his workbook.

“We’ll find time to plan for it.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m working for the rest of the week, though.”

“Me too,” said Dean. “And I have some hunting business Bobby wanted me to take care of.”

“Yeah, I have some things to take care of too.”

“But we’ll figure it out,” Dean repeated.

“Of course.”

Dean looked down at his book, pretending to read. Only he wasn’t mouthing the words silently like he did when he was trying to focus on reading.

“Except...” Said Castiel, and he looked up. “We still have to work. And I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave my father for so long...”

“Cas,” Dean stopped him. “Do you not want to go on this trip?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, it’s just-“

“Because I’m not sure I do,” said Dean.

“Oh,” he said.

“I know we’ve been planning it for a long time and all, but it’s just... not the right time.”

“I think so too.” He reached for Dean’s hand. “I just didn’t want to let you down. But it doesn’t mean we can’t do anything else.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiled. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Okay, break time.”

“We weren’t studying,” said Castiel, but Dean was already clicking his dog video tab on the computer. “What are we taking a break from?”

“Tough decisions?” Dean offered. “Honest conversation?” His voice faded all at once, and his attention was averted to something on the screen. He turned the laptop to face Castiel and grinned at him.

“What?” He looked down at the screen. There was the ad for that blond therapist again.

“Remember how you said we could do something else that’s not a trip?” Dean raised his eyebrows deliberately. “We’ve got tomorrow morning free.”

“We should use that time to study,” Castiel said reluctantly.

“It’s not recommended to study on the day of an exam, and you know it,” said Dean.

“So...”

“We could pay her a visit.”

“Really?” Said Castiel. “Just like that? Isn’t that...”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Morally questionable? Not what normal people do?”

“Screw normal people. Let’s check her out.”

Castiel pursed his lips. “So, what? We show up at her house and do what, exactly?”

“Well, it says she’s a therapist.” Dean clicked the ad, and Castiel moved to sit next to him.

“I don’t love it,” he said warily. But to tell the truth, he kind of did. This was what morally questionable spies must feel like.

“She’s a couple’s therapist,” Dean said when the page loaded. “Ooh!" He leaned back in his chair. "We can pretend we’re a couple!”

“We _are _a couple,” Castiel replied dryly.

“Right. But we don’t need...”

“Definitely not,” Castiel agreed.

“I mean, we're barely even a couple.”

Castiel glared at him.

“I mean- we don’t have issues to resolve. It's not like we've been married for twenty years. Not that I think about getting married.” His jaw slammed shut. Probably decided he better just not speak altogether.

Castiel browsed the website. “Look. You can schedule an appointment via the site.”

“And there’s a blank space tomorrow morning.” Dean grinned. “Seems like the fake Couple’s Therapist business isn’t so profitable.”

“We don’t know she’s a fake therapist,” Castiel said the next morning, in the car. The air held the scent of adventure.

And burgers. Dean’s car always smelled very faintly of burgers.

“She’s either a hunter,” Dean argued, “Or she’s some kind of monster. Trust me, whichever it is, neither would willingly choose a profession of sitting down and talking about your feelings.”

“Other people’s feelings,” Castiel corrected.

“Same thing. It’s all the same amount of bad.”

“So what’s our plan when we get there? I’m assuming we don’t just burst in letting her know we’re hunters here to investigate her suspicious activity.”

“That’s right,” Dean said, grabbing his sunglasses and putting them on in slow motion. “We’re going undercover.”

He tilted his head at Dean. “Are you trying to look cool?”

“Definitely.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “Is it working?”

“Definitely.”

“Amazing. So we’re going to need false identities.” He smiled excitedly. “This is going to be awesome.”

“I have mine,” said Castiel.

“Already?”

“Jimmy Novak. Walked out on his family because he thought an angel of God was talking to him. Wife died after he left, daughter was stranded and passed between orphanages. The family will never be the same.”

“Brutal. Did you seriously just come up with that?”

Castiel pulled out his sunglasses and slow-motioned them onto his face. “I saw it on TV.”

“That’s not a Cool Guy thing to say,” said Dean. “Dude, you gotta say a Cool Guy thing if you do the deep Cool Guy voice.”

“What? That’s my normal voice.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Still deeper than yours.”

That shut him up.

“There’s one problem, though. You don't look old enough to have a wife or a daughter.”

“If we wear shirts that accentuate our man muscles we can pass as twenty five,” he said.

Dean glanced at him from behind the wheel. “Who even are you?”

“What’s your cover?” He asked. No way it was cooler than his.

“Dean Smith. Salad-loving business man.”

He was right. It was lame.

“A business man in a leather jacket?” He asked skeptically.

Dean looked at him again. “You’re right. If we want our covers to be reliable we’re gonna have to switch clothes.”

And so they did. Now Dean was wearing a sloppy button-up, and Castiel was in a T-shirt and a brown leather jacket.

“Now, I look like a lousy businessman, and you look like a guy who ditched his family,” said Dean.

“Should we be worried about what our clothes say about us?” He asked. Dean thought about that for a moment.

“Nah.”

The therapist’s office was inside her house. Castiel knocked on the door when they arrived. It took a couple of minutes for it to open.

On the other side of it, a blond woman grinned at them.

“Come in!” She said. “I’m Dr. Hanscum, but you can call me Donna.”

Dean and him exchanged glances. It was definitely the woman from the fair. Much more smiley, and not covered in blood, but it was her.

They followed her to a spacious room in the tiny apartment.

“Take your seats,” said Donna. The room was welcoming, with house plants and watercolor paintings on the walls. A window brought natural light in.

They sat in two light green armchairs. This was already uncomfortable for Castiel; it was designed for him to feel too comfortable, too at home.

“No weapons,” Dean leaned towards him and whispered.

“Excuse me?” Asked Dr. Hanscum.

“I was just saying you have a lovely home,” Dean said to her. There was a box of donuts on the coffee table between their armchairs and hers.

“Why don’t you introduce yourselves?” Said Donna.

“Well, I’m Dean. And this is...”

“Jimmy,” Castiel nodded.

“And when did you meet?”

“About a year and a half ago,” said Castiel. Dean had said, and he’d agreed, that the more truth there was to a lie, the more reliable it was.

“I’m going to ask you the first question I always ask my patients: why are you here?”

They looked at each other. They’d planned for what to do if she turned out to be a hunter. They’d planned for what to do if she turned out to be a monster.

They hadn’t really planned for what to do if she turned out to be an actual therapist.

“Uhm...” Said Dean.

“Ahh...” Said Castiel.

“So you don’t really know,” said Donna.

They were screwed.

“Don’t worry,” she added with a smile. “It’s not unusual for patients to come without exactly knowing why they’re here.”

Dean adjusted in his chair. He clearly wasn’t feeling any more comfortable than Castiel was. “Say, doctor, when did you move into town? I think I might’ve seen you around.”

“I visited back in February, Actually, and decided to move right after.”

Dean glanced at him, and Castiel knew what he wanted to say: _That checks out. _

“Do you do this full time?” Dean asked. “Or is this more of a part time job?”

Now, it was Dr. Hanscum’s turn to seem uneasy.

“We’re not here to talk about me,” she said. “Why don’t you two tell me how you met?”

“We met in school,” said Dean.

“Yes. Business school. Dean is a salad-loving businessman.”

“And what about you, Jimmy?”

“I abandoned my family to follow God’s word,” he answered. Donna seemed taken aback.

“Alright. I meant more, what do you do for a living, but any kind of sharing is welcome here.”

“I’m in real estate,” he said. People always said they were in real estate when they weren’t telling the truth.

“Do you live together?”

“I think it’s a little too soon for that.”

“We’ve only been dating for a year,” Dean explained.

“What has been the biggest challenge of your relationship so far?” Asked Donna.

“We had this big fight a couple of months ago,” said Dean. Castiel touched his arm to stop him.

“Will you excuse us for a second?” He asked. Dean followed him out of the room.

“This isn’t going great,” he whispered when they were out.

“I know,” Dean whispered back. “We need to push harder.”

“No. Dean, I think she might just be an actual therapist.”

“She’s not! We’ve been here for, like, five minutes. Give me the benefit of the doubt, man.”

“So what, you want to go back there and keep answering all her questions about our private lives?”

“Yes,” said Dean. “We do tons of shady stuff. If she picks up on that, she’s definitely going to suspect us. And then she’ll blow her own cover and we’ll get what we want.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “But we’re not getting too real.”

“Definitely not.”

They walked back in.

“Is everything okay?” Asked Donna.

“Yep,” said Dean.

“You were telling me about a fight you had.”

They looked at each other.

“Jimmy is a workaholic,” said Dean.

So far for not getting too real.

“Dean doesn’t always take me seriously,” he said in turn.

“It ended in an understanding,” said Dean. “We agreed to be more considerate of one another.”

“I’m not the only one who can be a workaholic,” Castiel added.

“Or not,” Dean muttered to himself.

“What do you mean by that, Jimmy?” Asked Donna.

“He spends hours on his laptop researching pagan rituals,” said Castiel. “He disappears for weekends. Mysterious phone calls. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he were cheating on me with an old goat.”

Dean sent him a look that clearly said: _huh?_

He shrugged: _I improvised._

One thing could not be denied: they’d caught Dr. Hanscum’s attention. And it seemed to increase when Dean said:

“Can we not talk about my private life? I thought we were here to resolve the issue of you being such a huge twat.”

“Fine,” said Castiel.

“Why do you feel like your partner is being a...”

“Huge twat,” said Dean.

“Right,” said Dr. Hanscum.

Dean hesitated. “Sometimes it’s hard to get his full attention,” he said finally.

“Jimmy?”

“I’m working on it,” he answered. “I think I’ve gotten better.”

Dean smiled at him a little. “You have.”

“That’s very good,” said Dr. Hanscum. “Now, to get back to you for a moment, Dean. Are you very interested in pagan rituals?”

Dean’s expression shifted into something very vaguely triumphant. “Not so much pagan,” he said, “As much as all occult things. Satanism. Anything dark, really.”

“Do you have a lot of friends?”

“An average amount,” he said.

“Do any of them think you might have a... weird vibe?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Dean. “By average amount I meant zero to one. And she definitely thinks I have a weird vibe.”

He was so good at this. Everything he said was natural and perfectly reliable. Castiel thought he could watch Dean do this for the rest of his life.

The rest of his life.

He leaned back in his chair, and his chest felt tight.

Neither Dean, nor Dr. Hanscum, paid him any attention.

“What kind of a weird vibe?” Asked Donna.

Dean seemed lost at words.

“Jimmy, maybe you can help?” She asked. He snapped out of it and looked at Dean.

“I guess she’s more of a ‘throw knives at pictures of people for fun’ kind of person, while Dean is more ‘eat French fries in bed and yell at the Bachelorette when she makes bad decisions’. They have very different interests.”

“Dude,” Dean hissed at him. To Dr. Hanscum, he said, “I think we actually have one, very specific, interest.”

“And what’s that?”

“Him,” Dean nodded his chin to gesture at him. “And the fact that if I hadn’t been in the picture, they would’ve gotten together a long time ago.”

“Is that true?” Asked Dr. Hanscum. Castiel couldn’t see her expression, because his head was buried in his hands.

“Can we please change the subject?”

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

And if this mission to expose the doctor for whatever she was doing started out all fake, it got painfully real.

“Sure,” Donna said eventually. “We’re almost out of time, so why don’t we do just one exercise before I let you go? Let’s try to each remember something you said to the other that you regret, and might like to take this opportunity to apologize for.”

Those words only seemed to invite more silence. But then-

“I have one.”

“Go ahead, Dean.”

Dean looked at him. “When we had that fight, I said the longer we’re together the harder it gets. I don’t... know why I said that.”

“Did you mean it?” Asked Dr. Hanscum gently.

“We were going through a rough time,” Dean answered. “I guess that’s how I felt at that moment. But that was one moment out of thousands.”

“It’s okay,” said Castiel. “I know.”

“And about today..." Dean told him. "Seems like you were right.”

“I’m going to have to end our session now,” said Donna. “But you seem pretty solid, you guys. You don’t seem to need my help to resolve your issues.”

“No offense, doc, but I think we all agree on that,” said Dean.

She walked them to the door, pausing before she opened it.

“Thank you for coming in.”

Dean nodded.

“Christo,” she coughed. Dean’s eyes widened in a second.

“Sorry?” He said.

“I was just... admiring Jimmy’s jacket,” she said.

“I was right,” he pointed at her with a gape. “We were right.”

“Dean...”

“She said Christo, Cas. She was checking if we were demons!”

“You’re hunters?” She asked.

“You’re a hunter!” Dean called. Then he seemed to calm himself. “We saw you at the fair, killing monsters. You were amazing. Who the hell are you?”

She looked at them reluctantly. “Everything I told you guys was real,” she said. “Except I’m not a therapist. I’m a cop. I came in here because there’s such a high rate of monsters in the town. Have you noticed?”

“Have we noticed,” Dean huffed. “That fair was like a monster convention. Either way, you might wanna up your game if you want to catch some monsters.”

“How do you mean?”

“Give them holy water to drink,” Castiel suggested.

“Yeah. Or put a devil’s trap under the carpet.”

“Give them a silver pen to write with.”

“Start an exorcism and then play it off as an old Latin passage about relationships.”

“Thanks, you guys,” she said, and gave them her card before they left. “In case you ever need anything.”

“Oof,” said Dean as they were walking back to the car. “Hard, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Being wrong, once again.” He grinned. “Everyone should listen to me, all the time.”

“You’re such a sore winner,” Castiel muttered. “But I suppose they should.”


	15. Time Is On My Side

It was the last day of high school, and Dean was about to be late for class.

This was it. He was never going to walk these halls again. He was never going to see any of these people, except for Meg and Andy who were going to his college.

College.

Finally.

At 7:58, his phone buzzed.

Dean._ **Happy anniversary?**_

_Why the question mark?_ He wrote back.

** _I dunno. I thought maybe I was just imagining the last year and we aren't actually dating_ **

_You were wrong._

** _Your words of love know no limit, cas_ **

He smiled at his phone.

_Where are you? Class is starting._

**_Getting you coffee_**, Dean wrote.

_Why?_

** _Because I wanted to do something nice for you!_ **

_But now you're late to class._

_ **You ruin everything!!!!!** _

A minute later Ms. Mills walked into class, and after her, Dean.

“Here’s your coffee, you butt.” He placed a disposable cup on the table and slumped into his chair.

“Alright, class, you know the drill,” said Ms. Mills from the front of the room. “Personal evaluations, ten minutes per person. You’ll get your diplomas at the ceremony. Now, quiet.”

“So, prom tonight,” said Meg behind them.

“Actually,” said Anna by her side. “I kind of wanted to talk to you about that.” She looked at Dean nervously.

Dean lowered his voice. “Look,” he told her. “Truth is, I blew you off last week because I’m with Meg. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” said Meg. She leaned in to wrap her arm around his shoulder.

“Ow,” he winced.

She was pinching his arm.

“That’s fine,” said Anna. From the other side of the class, April was approaching.

“About prom-” she started.

Castiel cut her off. “No.”

“But-”

“No.”

She left.

“Wow. You’re a hardass,” said Dean. “Doesn’t she deserve a chance?”

Castiel glared at him.

“When did you guys become so popular?” Asked Meg. “Next thing, Andy is going to come over and profess his love to one of you. Or both. Who knows.” She said it while maintaining piercing eye contact.

“It’s because they’re so good looking,” Anna commented.

“Yeah, thanks, dumbass,” said Meg. 

Anna's eyes narrowed and cut sideways. She seemed annoyed. “Since when are you dating?” She asked. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you say something nice to him.”

“That’s true,” Dean raised an eyebrow at her. “You should be nicer to me.”

“Our relationship isn’t based on nice,” said Meg. “It’s based on me taking advantage of you. That’s how relationships with hot but dumb guys work. Isn’t it, Clarence?”

“Not really,” said Castiel. Meg leaned over the table towards him.

“You don't think they'd let us get a room together in college, do you?”

“They might,” he said.

“That would be dope.”

Dean’s eyes shot to her face, and from there to Castiel’s. He fell into a silence.

Ms. Mills called Meg up.

“You’re up next, Milton,” she said as she got up. Anna picked up her phone and started scrolling. Dean stared at the table. A moment passed.

“You know I’m going to have to get a room with someone,” Castiel said finally, glancing back to make sure Anna wasn't listening.

Dean looked at him. “Yeah, well, this one _likes_ you.”

“So what?”

“So... I dunno. Wouldn’t it bother you to be around her constantly? To take your shirt off in front of her?” He asked. “It would bother me.”

“Okay,” said Castiel.

“...Okay?”

“I won’t do it if it bothers you that much.”

Dean leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t mean to make you change your mind.”

“You didn’t,” said Castiel. “I don’t care who I share a room with, Dean.”

“Okay,” said Dean cautiously.

“Okay.”

Finally, Ms. Mills called his name, and he stood up stiffly.

“I’d like you to evaluate yourself,” she said when he sat down in front of her. Her voice was softer than usual. “How do you think you did this year?”

“Alright?” He said hesitantly.

“Really? Alright?”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” he said. She smiled.

“You have the third-place highest grades in the class,” she said. “That’s an incredible achievement, Castiel. But can I give you a word of advice?”

He nodded.

“You’re worth more than you think,” she said gently. “Most kids are. And no one’s going to say it to you again, so you better remember it. Don’t sell yourself short.” She patted his shoulder. “Dismissed.”

Castiel couldn’t deny that the prom hall was beautiful. There were no extravagant decorations – just fairy lights everywhere. On the trees outside. On the walls. Even on the doors. It only contributed to the magical feeling of school finally being over.

He scanned the room for his friends and found Meg by the drinks table.

“There is no alcohol here,” she said dryly when he approached.

“Who comes to prom in a black leather jacket?” He asked her.

“Who comes to prom in jeans and a messy button-up?” She retorted.

“It’s black jeans,” he protested.

“Did you match outfits with your boyfriend?”

“No. Why?”

She nodded her chin at the door. Dean was there, waving them and making his way over through the barricade of students dressed in ridiculously formal outwear.

“Who wears jeans to prom?” Meg asked when he got closer.

“They’re black,” he frowned. Meg looked from one of them to the other.

“You’re soulmates,” she sighed.

Dean looked at him. “Why is she saying that?”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s go sit in a corner and mock people’s dance moves.”

“Actually-" said Dean, but Meg raised a finger in the air.

“This is the last day of our fake relationship,” she said. “So tonight you’re my bitch, Winchester.”

“I’m not your bitch. I’m- my own bitch.” He scratched his forehead. “Okay, that one kind of backfired.”

“Get better comebacks, Bunny Bear,” said Meg. “And if you don’t do whatever I want, I will go out there and tell Anna that we broke up and that you’re all hers.”

He clenched his teeth. “Fine.”

But as it turned out, Meg wasn’t all that demanding. She really just wanted to sit in the corner and make fun of people’s dance moves.

“When you said I need to do whatever you want I kinda figured you’d make me murder someone.” Dean sipped from his lemonade.

“Or help you cover someone’s murder,” Castiel added.

Meg lifted an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“Hey,” Dean raised his finger. “No take-backs.”

“Prom sucks,” said Meg.

“Yeah,” said Castiel. “Prom sucks.”

“Okay, I did not come here with two dates for them to both sit in the corner and complain,” said Dean.

“What are you saying?” Asked Castiel.

“That we should complain while getting more drinks.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Meg patted Dean's knee forcefully. “Go get us more drinks, Bunny Bear.”

“I’m not going alone, you ass.”

“Oh, there’s Anna.” Meg waved her hand. “Anna, guess what!”

“Alright, alright. I’m going,” Dean muttered, standing up. As he walked away, Anna came over.

“He’s so hot, I don’t know how you get anything done,” she said, looking back at Dean.

“Why does everyone think he’s so great?” Meg asked. Castiel kneed her. “I mean... that ass doesn’t quit.”

“And he’s a good guy,” Castiel added.

“Nope, just the ass thing.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t think you’re his type,” said Anna.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Meg. “Dark hair, asshole, kind of a weirdo, out of his league – seems to me like that’s just his type. Isn’t it, Clarence?”

Castiel grimaced at her. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you’re, like, besties.”

“What did you want?” Asked Anna.

Meg looked at her white dress and army green jacket. “Your dress is ugly.”

“You’re a demon,” Anna grumbled and walked away.

“Yeah, okay.” Meg stirred her drink in her cup and took a sip from it. “So, say.”

“Yeah?” Said Castiel. He watched halfheartedly as Dean poured a bright pink drink into a cup on the other side of the room, smiling somewhat impishly.

“What is it about him?” Meg asked. She was watching her drink. “I don't mean to be rude, it’s just- he's kind of a dumbass.”

He thought about that for a moment. Was there something about Dean that made him better than anyone else? To Meg, no. And maybe not to the rest of the world. But to him?

“It just works,” he said finally. “It works better than anything’s ever worked for me.”

Meg didn’t say anything to that. And soon enough, Dean was back with her drink.

“Why are you smiling like this?” She grimaced at him, and then at her drink. “Holy hell, why is it pink?”

“To match your personality.”

“Seriously? This is your big prank? You didn’t even make me drink it.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” he said. “I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of rat fluid in it. Don’t ask how I know.”

Dean and Meg kept their banter on either side of him. Castiel had a feeling they were just a little bit sad they weren’t going to see each other anymore.

Prom wasn’t much more than that. But it was everything he could have asked for.

They went to Dean’s place when prom was over.

“What kind of prom is it if you don’t even get to get drunk?” Dean asked as they took the stairs to his apartment.

“What kind of prom did you go to?” Castiel asked skeptically. He heard keys rattle above them, and footsteps go down the stairs.

“None,” Dean replied. “But I imagined there would be at least _something _to help us forget the pain, and since Taylor Swift wasn’t there...” A man passed by them, and Dean lit up at the sight of him. “Hey, man.”

“Hey, brother,” said the guy.

“This is my buddy Cas.”

The guy reached out a hand for Castiel to shake. “Benny.”

“Been a while,” said Dean.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.” Benny glanced at the keys in his hands as he said it. “Good to see you,” he said and disappeared down the stairs.

“Neighbor,” Dean explained. They entered the house.

Castiel glanced back at the door. “Is that the guy you ‘love’?”

“Huh?”

“When we met your other neighbor she mentioned a guy called Benny, and you said, ‘I love that guy’.”

Dean threw his keys on the table and took his shoes off. “Oh, yeah. He’s a vampire, but we’re chill. Good guy.”

“He’s a _vampire_?”

“...But we’re chill,” Dean repeated hesitantly.

“You have a vampire living in your building?”

“No,” said Dean. “He has a hunter living in his building. Coffee?”

Castiel plopped down on a chair. “Sure.”

Dean turned the kettle on. He was quieter than usual. Or maybe he was just as quiet as he had been in the past few week, which was quieter than usual. When he finally sat down next to Castiel with two coffee mugs, he smiled nervously.

“Is something wrong?” Asked Castiel.

He hesitated. “No, not wrong.”

“Dean.” Castiel touched his hand. “Are you trying to tell me that we’re pregnant?”

“Okay, I know I encourage you to make jokes, but that one’s just plain bad.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well.” He pursed his lips. He tapped his fingers on the table. He puffed his cheeks with air and let it out with a funny sound. “Remember when Donna asked if we live together and you said it was too soon?”

“Yeah, that was crazy.”

“Yeah. Crazy.” Dean tapped some more on the table. “So... you wanna do it?”

Castiel stared at him.

“I mean- you don’t need to say yes. You know what, forget it. Don’t say yes. I take it back. I unsay it. It’s unsaid. It’s not... not said.”

“It's just that I’m only here for the summer,” he said.

“Yeah, but... there’s weekends,” said Dean. “And breaks and stuff.” He looked down at his hands. He’s clearly paid it a certain amount of thought. And clearly, he wanted it more than he was showing. He thought it was a better idea than he was letting himself advocate, because he didn’t want to push.

“Yeah,” Castiel said slowly. He felt a tug in his stomach, and somehow he knew he wasn’t going to regret this. “Okay. I’m in.”

Dean’s face lit up. “No take backs,” he said. “I’m kidding. Yes take backs. You can think about it. But I’ll start searching for places online, just in case.”

“Why not stay here?”

Dean gestured around them. “In this dump?”

“I like this dump,” Castiel protested.

“Fine. Let’s do pros and cons.” Dean got a pen and paper, and drew a chart. “Cons: this place is a dump. Pros? None.”

He actually wrote _none_, but Castiel hijacked the list. “You don’t have to move your things,” he said while he wrote. “And I can move in immediately. Finding another place might take weeks or even months.”

“Or,” said Dean, emphasizing the word, “It could take an hour.”

“And we’re already used to the neighborhood.”

“And it’s probably cheaper than any other place.” Dean sighed. “I guess you can add that.”

“I think those are good enough reasons to ignore ‘this place is a dump’.”

“It’s still going to be far away from your college,” Dean argued. “What if we moved closer to there?”

“It’s a much more expensive area,” he said. “And your work is here. And I’d like to stay close to my father.”

And suddenly he realized how absurd this scene was, the two of them talking about apartments when five minutes ago he wasn't even thinking about moving, how absurd it was that this felt natural. It felt right. 

“Come on,” said Dean in response. “Not the dad card.”

“But it’s true.”

“I know it’s true. That’s why I’m protesting.”

Castiel sighed. “If it’s that important to you, let’s just start searching places and see what we find.”

“No, you’re right.” Dean shook his head. “God, I hate it when you’re right.”

“Then you must hate most of life,” he replied, and Dean kicked his foot playfully.

“Ground rule,” Dean said. “You can’t be annoying.”

“Oh, are we doing ground rules?”

“We are now.”

“Okay,” he said. “Ground rule: we split all house-related expenses.”

“That one works in my benefit,” said Dean.

“No leaving weapons lying around,” Castiel added.

“Fine.”

“And no puns.”

“Aw, come on. Now you’re just being mean.”

“This is going to be fun,” Castiel smiled at him.

"It's going to be _pu_-"

"No."


	16. There Will Be Blood

There were boxes everywhere.

“There are boxes everywhere,” Dean noted.

“Your observation is limited to the space of this room,” Castiel replied.

Dean groaned. “It’s like you’re trying to annoy me to death.” Sitting on Castiel's bed, he grabbed a pillow and leaned his elbows on it.

Castiel looked around. There weren’t that many boxes.

“There aren’t that many boxes,” he said.

“You’re no fun,” said Dean. “At least let me help.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with my things.”

“It’s _stuff_. It goes in the box, and then out the box. That’s all there is to it.”

Castiel pursed his lips, and lifted another stack of religious books into a box. Dean eyed it.

“Is that thing going in our house?”

_Our house._ It didn’t come quite as naturally to him as it did to Dean.

“No,” he answered. A tiny ball of guilt settled in his stomach when he looked at the books. “I’m... giving them away.”

“Oh." Dean scratched his head. "‘Cause, you know, I’d be fine with that. If you wanted to keep them.”

“I think it’s time to let go.” He turned his back on the books before he would change his mind. “I never use them, anyway.”

He turned to fill another box. Dean stretched his hand to grab something from the floor by the bed.

“Oh my god. Timothy! You’re alive.”

Castiel glanced at the stuffed dragon. “Of course he’s alive,” he frowned. “I know how to be a parent.”

“Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Dean, though it seemed like it was a little too late for that; Dean was cradling Timothy in his arms and petting his head as they spoke.

He looked around the room and sighed. There was much more to do than he’d imagined. He hadn’t thought packing one room could possibly take more than a day. But it wasn’t just packing. It was organizing, and sorting, and throwing things out, and finding things you didn’t even know were there-

“Luci’s dried brain?” Dean picked up a black box between his index finger and his thumb, holding it as far from his body as possible. “But I already have one! What are we going to do with two of those?”

Castiel ignored the mocking in his tone. “It’s my brother’s. It was a biology experiment. Give me, I’ll leave it in his room.” He took the box and put it in the pile that was for putting things away. “Meanwhile, you can help.”

Dean shimmied off the bed. “Ooh, help.” 

“You can take this side of the room,” he gestured to his right, “And maybe we’ll be done by midnight.”

“I really hope you’re exaggerating,” said Dean.

“I am not exaggerating.”

“There’s so much useless stuff here.”

“So much.”

With Dean’s help, though, things did go faster. Plus, he would grab anything questionable and point it out. It wasn’t very helpful; just somewhat endearing.

“School books?” He asked.

“Burn them,” Castiel answered.

“Seriously?”

“No. Jesus. Just put them in the recycling pile.”

“Lame.” Dean held up a stack of documents. “College stuff.”

“There’s a box labelled ‘important’ somewhere.”

Dean knelt down to read a title on a box.

“So... was it like this when you moved into your apartment?” He tried to make his tone casual as he worked.

“Not really,” Dean said. “I didn’t have as many things as I have now.”

That was a strange thing to say, since Dean didn’t have many things now, either. After a moment, he added, “I think my dad had a storage unit somewhere that had some of our childhood stuff.” His expression changed into a smirk. “I bet Sam would want his spelling bee trophies back. Hey, look. An empty picture frame.” He dug the frame out of a drawer in Castiel’s desk. “Do you think we should put a really cheesy picture of us in it and then display it in the house so that everyone who comes in will think we’re a gross, annoying couple?”

“That’s a great idea.” He couldn’t mask the sarcasm in his voice. “Or we could put a picture of your parents in it.”

Dean looked down at the picture, and threw it silently into a box.

An hour later - and they were nearly done. He was collecting the trash into bags while Dean went over his closet.

“Black, black, blue, beige, white, white, white... Hey, Cas?” Dean looked at him. “Ya boring.” He put the clothes into a box – and found a hidden shelf behind them.

“Angel blade, check.” Dean picked up the silver blade and threw it in over the clothes. He took something else from the shelf. “A knife... Another knife? You have a secret weapon stash?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Who’s boring now?” 

“Still you. But this is next level. What do you need so many weapons for?”

“I want to be prepared.” He shrugged.

“Prepared for what? The zombie apocalypse?”

“Sure,” he said. “Don’t you have a secret weapon stash in your closet?”

Dean mumbled something at a box he had picked up to put on top of another.

“What?”

“I do,” he muttered.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you being weird about it?”

“I’m not,” Dean said defensively.

Castiel squinted at him. “Where is it?”

“It’s in my PJs drawer,” he let out unwillingly.

“So?”

“I might’ve put it underneath an... adult-sized Spiderman onesie. He kicks ass, okay?”

“I don't know him,” said Castiel. Nor could he imagine what that onesie looked like. “I think we can start closing boxes. Let me just find tape and scissors.”

Dean sat down on the bed with his legs crossed. “I’mma miss this bed. It’s so much comfier than mine. On second thought, this move isn’t exactly an upgrade for you. Maybe I should have moved in with you and your dad. That wouldn’t be weird.” He picked a crumpled page off the floor, throwing it up and catching it. Then he un-crumpled it.

“What's this? _How to Spend the Summer,_” He read.

“I have no idea.” Castiel took a look at it over his shoulder. “It’s not from this summer.”

“Look,” Dean grinned. “My name’s in it. It must be from last summer.” He read the list. “_Get rid of old school things. Get new school things. _You did that. _Watch the Stars War, Dean recommended_,” he read. “This you never did.”

“I watched it with you,” Castiel protested.

“You watched Star Wars with me,” said Dean. “You didn't watch the Stars War with no one.”

“I’m going to close the boxes,” he said, thinking it might make Dean lose interest in the list.

It didn’t.

“_Listen to Back in Black by the Led Zeppelin_, question mark,” Dean continued. He would not stop smiling like an asshole. “_Dean recommended_. It’s really cute how you wanted to impress me. Wow.”

“You once stopped wearing classic rock bands T-shirts for an entire months because I said they made you look like a thirteen year old,” he countered. “I didn’t even know you had other clothes.”

“But then I realized you’re not my mom and I can wear what I want.”

“After a _month_.”

Dean shook his head and kept reading. “_Spend more time with Dean_.” And his smile was back. “Aww. That’s sweet.”

Castiel reached for the page. “Give that to me.” But Dean leaned away from his reach and read quickly:

“_Take down George Washington poster._” He gasped. “You have a George Washington poster?”

Castiel climbed the bed and snatched the paper from his hands. “Not anymore. And I’m this close to taking back my decision to move in with you.”

“But I said no take backs!” Dean smiled, and put a hand on his waist. “Speaking of, are you sure your dad is okay with this?”

“This being us moving in together, or him living here alone?”

“Both?”

“He said he’ll be fine here. And please don’t bring up the other thing in front of him, I really don’t want him to start talking about threesomes again.”

Dean’s forehead creased, and he opened his mouth.

“Don’t even ask,” said Castiel. “You don’t want to know.”

By late afternoon, the last of the boxes were put away in the car, and they entered the living room to say goodbye to Chuck. It didn’t look much better now that he was sober; there were still coffee mugs and papers everywhere, along with piles of books on the floor.

“We’re-” Castiel started, but Something in his peripheral vision distracted him. He glanced at Dean’s chest. “Why does your necklace glow?”

“I don’t know.” Dean took it off and shoved it in his pocket. “It just does that sometimes.”

Castiel shook his head. “We’re going to take off,” he said to Chuck. 

“Have fun, you two,” said his father, eyeing Dean's pocket.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Sure I will.” He got up from his armchair with some difficulty. “I knew this day would come. Come here, kid.” And then his father hugged him.

Oh, Lord. He wasn’t used to hugs. He looked at Dean helplessly, but he just shrugged.

Chuck let him go and patted his back.

“I fixed some things around the house,” said Castiel. “Changed some light bulbs, washed the dishes, did laundry and took the neighbors’ Christmas decorations down-“

“In _June_?” Dean interrupted, playing with his necklace. It wasn’t glowing anymore.

Castiel ignored him. “In return for them bringing in some lasagna once a month so, so at least you won’t starve.”

“I know how to make a sandwich, son.”

“I know,” Castiel said, even though he wouldn’t count on that.

“I’ll be alright. Don’t worry.” He patted Dean’s back as well.

“Is the Back Pat the only move dads have?” Dean asked once they left the house. They got into the car, and Castiel started the engine. He wasn’t going to keep it, but Dean’s car was too small for the boxes. Plus, it would probably die if they tried loading all this weight on it. Dean had smacked him when he'd said that.

He pulled out of the driveway and into the road.

“You’re coming home, buddy,” said Dean. Then he looked at Castiel and raised the stuffed dragon. “I was talking to Timothy, not you.”

Unpacking his things wasn’t as big of a challenge as it had seemed. Dean made room in his closet, the bathroom cabinet, and even the kitchen drawers.

“What?” He asked when Castiel expressed his doubt about the kitchen drawers. “Maybe you have a favorite pot.”

“I do not,” he answered.

They were unpacked in one evening.

“We make a great team,” said Dean. “Should we start a wedding planning business together?”

Castiel just shook his head slowly with disapproval.

Dean went and got something from the bathroom. “I bought a whole other towel for you, so now it’s official.” He handed him a gray towel.

“You only have one towel?”

“Nope,” Dean said. “Now I have two.”

“What did I get myself into?”

“Don’t question our relationship. Okay, there’s something I wanted to talk about,” Dean said, and sat him down. “Sam is on summer break now, and he’s pretty busy, but I wanted to ask him if he wants to spend a few days in town.” 

“Okay.”

“Meaning, he’d be staying here,” said Dean.

“Alright,” he said.

“Do you think that would work?” Dean asked.

“Sure.”

“Great. I’ll get him a sleeping bag or something. We don’t have an extra mattress. Lemme just give him a call.”

“What is he going to do here?” Castiel asked. Dean dialed and waited for Sam to pick up. “There’s not much to see.”

“I dunno. The burger place? The science museum? The library?”

“None of these are interesting places,” Castiel noted.

“Yeah, well, I’d take him to Crowley’s escape room, but I’m pretty sure about one of every ten people going there doesn’t come back out. Have you noticed that? Anyway, he’s not picking up.” Dean hung up the phone.

“I have,” he said. “Last week, during my shift, this group of five old ladies came in and only four of them came out. They said they lost Betty and that she probably went home because of her bad hip.”

“Maybe it actually was her bad hip,” Dean suggested.

“That’s not the first time it’s happened," he said. Crowley's disappearances made him want to squint. "But yes, Sam would enjoy... the library.”

“I know you’re judging me,” Dean said. “You’re using your judgy tone. But he’s a fifteen year old nerd. Going to the library for him is like... It’s like...”

“Watching the Bachelorette at home on a Friday night for us?”

Dean glared at him. “We said we weren’t going to talk about it.”

“Fine.”

“Point is, I’m sure we’ll find something to do. Plus, you’ll get to know each other, since the last time you met was during a murder fest at your brother’s house.”

“It would be nice to get to know him,” Castiel mused. “Anyway, it’s been a long day. Should we go to sleep?”

Dean looked at his watch. “It’s ten fifteen,” he said. “We live on our own. We can do whatever the hell we want. We can go to parties and stay up until five a.m.”

“Hot cocoa and then sleep?”

“Yep.”

Waking up in Dean’s bed the next morning was surreal. Trying to get used to living somewhere he wasn’t used to calling his own was surreal.

Dean snoring beside him in Batman pajamas was not surreal. It was mundane.

So, at least one thing felt normal.

The morning routine wasn’t exceptional. Coffee. Yawning. Cursing mornings and everything related to them.

“So what should we do today?” Dean asked once they were finished with coffee and cursing. “Go grocery shopping? go to the hardware store? Clean the house? Our first day as grown-ups.” He smiled. “Ooh, let's jump on the bed until the springs pop out."

"Jumping on the bed until the springs pop out?" said Castiel. "Come on. We're grown ups. If the springs pop out, we can probably just skip a few dinners and buy a new bed."

And there was something lawless about it. Eating lunch in bed. Spending two hours making a ball out of rubber bands. Fighting with swords and light sabers.

Jumping on the bed. 

“We should probably wash the dishes,” Castiel pointed out around sunset.

“Nah,” said Dean. “Let it sit for a couple of days. Otherwise it doesn’t feel like you earned it.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Gotta let it sit,” Dean said.

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “If dishwashing isn’t a priority...”

Dean started to smile. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

Dean grabbed the rubber band ball. “More rubber bands.”

They sat down on the floor with the ball between them.

“I'll hold it while you add more bands,” said Dean.

“Alright. Don’t move.” He stretched a band. The ball was already almost too big for them now.

“Are we wasting our time doing this?” Dean asked. “Ow! Your band flicked me.”

“Sorry,” said Castiel. “This job is demanding.”

“I don’t wanna be flicked. Let’s switch.”

“I don’t want to be flicked either,” he protested. Dean gave him the ball and grabbed the rubber band bag.

“I’m not going to flick you. I’m a pro. I didn’t flick you once before, and we were doing this for like, two hours.”

Castiel looked at him. “You flicked me at least fifteen times, you liar.”

Dean pressed his lips together, but he didn’t quite manage to suppress his smile. “Not once,” he said. Castiel shook his head, but he couldn’t stop his own smile.

“Did you get a hold of your brother?” He asked.

“Are you just asking that so that I’ll drop the argument and you’ll win?”

“Obviously not.”

“I tried to call him this morning, but he didn’t pick up. Let me try again,” said Dean. He put in the number and waited.

Argument won.

But Sam wasn't picking up, and Dean started to bite his lip nervously. “I’m sure this isn’t a bad sign,” he mumbled when their eyes locked. After a moment, his back straightened.

“Who is this?” He asked into the phone.

“It’s not Sam?” Castiel asked. He shook his head, and put the call on speaker. A woman’s voice answered:

“Dean Winchester.” She said it in a slow, satisfied way that made his stomach sink. Dean didn’t seem to react any better.

“...Sammy?”

“They said you were stupid,” said the woman over the phone. “But I had no idea how much.”

“Who is this?” Dean asked again rigidly.

“Does it matter? We all want you dead.”

“Demon,” Dean said between his teeth. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I’ve already got what I want.” The way she said it. It made Castiel’s skin crawl. “Say hi, kid.”

“Dean-“

“And he’s _dying _to see you,” said the demon.

Dean’s chair dragged across the floor as he pulled himself up. “Where is he?”

“Dean, it’s a trap,” Castiel said quietly.

“Oh, it’s not a trap,” said the demon sweetly, and Dean's mouth twisted. “I’m going to kill him, and there’s nothing you can do about that.”

The call disconnected.

They looked at each other in silence. He’d never seen Dean this angry in his life.

“So... That wasn’t Sam,” he said, watching Dean's frozen expression carefully. “Maybe you dialed a wrong number?”


	17. Brother's Keeper

Dean stormed around the house, collecting weapons.

Castiel watched him from the kitchen. “What are you doing?” He asked.

“I’m leaving,” Dean growled. “Now. Are you coming?” He reached for a drawer in the closet, throwing everything in it to the floor, and shoved three knives into the inside of his jacket. Then he shoved two pistols into his belt. If someone lifted him up, turned him upside down and shook, he would be dropping weapons on the floor like an apple tree dropping apples.

“Where?” Castiel asked. “You have no plan.”

“I’ll figure out a plan on the way.”

“And until then, what? You’ll drive in circles around the square down the street?” He asked harshly. “Dean, stop. We need to think this through. We need a plan.”

“We need to get my brother, _now_.” Dean's growls were getting fiercer. And when he looked at Castiel, he seemed to see right through him.

“You’re being unreasonable, and you know it.” He grabbed Dean’s arm as he stormed past the kitchen, and didn’t let go until Dean looked at him. Really looked. “Five minutes,” he said.

Dean sank into a chair. “Alright,” he said. “Five minutes.”

He took a seat beside Dean. “We need to find out where Sam is. How can we do that?”

Dean thought about it, leaning back in his chair, and it seemed that for the first time, he was realizing how flimsy his plan of getting in the car packing twenty weapons and driving away really was.

“We need to trick her into telling us where she’s keeping him,” said Castiel. “The demon.”

“She’s never going to do that,” Dean argued.

“Well, what if we were to...” He raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Entice her?”

“But she hates me,” Dean said.

“Let me try,” he said, and put up his palm for Dean to give him his phone.

Dean looked at the hand. “No offense, Cas, but your people skills are kinda rusty.”

“We have nothing to lose,” he said in reply.

Dean couldn’t argue with that.

“Three minutes,” he said as he put the phone in Castiel’s hand. “If she doesn’t answer, I’m outta here, with or without you.”

He took the phone and dialed Sam’s number. Dean watched him anxiously as they waited.

The demon answered after four rings.

“What?” She spat out into the phone.

“I want to offer you a deal,” said Castiel.

“Not interested.”

“Even if I can give you Dean Winchester?” He asked before she could hang up. He watched Dean’s eyes widen and lock on the phone.

The demon was silent for a few moments.

“Who is this?” She asked finally.

“Someone who might have a common interest with you,” he answered.

“And what is that?”

“I’ll give you Dean for Sam.” He put his palm up in front of Dean’s face before he continued. Things were about to get brutal. “I’m sick of him anyway. Years of listening to him talk about pizza toppings and old movies. You can imagine why I’d like to get rid of him.”

“I can,” said the demon. Her voice sounded almost empathetic. Dean took his hand down and watched him intensely.

“So do we have a deal?” He asked.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

He focused his eyes on the table. He couldn't help feeling like a traitor, even though Dean was right here, knowing he didn't really mean this. “If you know Dean Winchester, you know he wouldn’t stand hearing someone say this about him. He wouldn’t speak to me again if he heard me complain about his pizza topping rants.”

Dean rolled his eyes. They waited silently for the demon's reaction.

“I’ll text you the address,” she said finally, and hung up.

“I can’t believe it worked,” he breathed.

“That was amazing,” Dean said, side-eyeing him. “Hey, you don’t really hate my pizza rants that much, do you?”

“Of course not,” he said. His voice came out a little high. Dean looked at him suspiciously. And then the phone buzzed.

“It’s an address,” said Dean. He was already by the door with his coat in hand before Castiel got up from his chair. “Let’s go.”

In the car, he took Dean’s phone and entered the password.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked.

“Flirting,” he said, eyeing Dean. “Is there something stuck in your throat?” He asked. Dean was coughing.

“What exactly do you call ‘flirting’?” Dean asked. “I’m not sure our definitions match.”

He read the text chat between him and the demon out loud. “five fifty two, I said, ‘You know, he likes to be the little spoon’. Five fifty eight-”

“Hey,” Dean protested. “Everyone likes to be the little spoon. It makes you feel safe.”

“Five fifty eight,” he said. “She wrote, ‘what a thirsty bitch’.”

“That’s just mean,” Dean said defensively.

“I agree,” he said with the hint of a smile. “I think your little spoon thing is adorable.”

“Shut up.” Dean eyed the phone. “What are you writing now?”

“We’re bonding over how cute your frowny face is,” he said.

“She thinks it’s _cute,_” Dean said skeptically.

“I might have replaced the word she used with ‘cute’ in your benefit.”

“Stop trying to get into the demon’s pants, Cas,” he muttered.

“For the record, I don’t think it’s cute, either. Your feelings are valid, Dean.”

“What are you even saying?”

“That you shouldn’t dismiss someone’s anger by laughing at them. Take a left here.”

“Is this it?” Dean asked. He pointed at a deserted barn half a mile down the side of the road.

“Yeah, I think so.”

A couple of minutes later, they were parked before the barn.

Dean put a roll of duct tape in his hands. “Okay. Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d say to a guy,” he said. “Tie me up, Cas.”

“Are you sure this is the right way to go? You won’t be able to defend yourself.”

“I can handle myself, hands tied or not. Plus, how else will she believe we’re not tricking her?”

“Because she knows you’d rather sacrifice yourself than your brother?” Castiel offered. Dean waved his hand dismissively.

“A demon would not get close to me unless I’m either tied up or unconscious,” he said. Castiel snorted.

“What? You don’t think I’m tough enough to fuck up a demon?”

“Sure I do,” he said, and Dean relaxed. “I don’t think they’re intimidated by you, though.”

“Cas!”

“They’re _demons_,” he argued. “You’re human.”

“You know what? Fine,” said Dean. “Let’s go in this way, and you’ll see she won’t even get close to me. Just take the tape with us, so you can still tie me up when she asks you to, because I’m a huge, dangerous threat.”

So they went in with the tape. Dean gave him all the weapons he was carrying before they entered – three pistols, three knives, one dagger, a flask of holy water, and a really sharp stick. He wasn’t sure how the last one was going to help him, but Dean looked him up and down and nodded.

“You look normal,” he said.

“I don’t like that you’re going in defenseless,” said Castiel. “At least take one of the knives back.”

“Already have one in my shoe,” Dean assured him. “And in case she finds that one – a pocketknife somewhere she’d never want to touch.”

“Ew.”

“Yep,” He grinned. “It’s in my undies. Okay, let’s go.”

Inside the barn were some old hay and a chair. Dean’s brother was sitting on the floor against a wall, his wrists and ankles tied with tape. Beside him stood a blond woman in a red jacket, her arms folded across her chest, looking impatient.

“Sammy,” Dean called when he saw Sam. “Are you okay?”

Sam nodded.

Dean turned to Castiel, raising his eyebrows. “See?” He pointed his chin at Sam. “Duct tape.”

“Give me your guy,” said the demon. “And I’ll give you mine.”

“First, I want to see he’s okay,” said Dean.

The demon grabbed Sam’s arm and yanked him up. “He’s fine.” She took a big knife out of her belt and poked him in the side. “See?”

“Ow,” said Sam, although the poke seemed to be harmless.

“Now tell me your name so I can hunt you down if I don’t kill you in the next five minutes,” Dean growled.

“Dean,” Castiel warned.

“Blue-eyes has a point,” she pointed her knife at Castiel. “I’m not going to do that.”

“It’s Ruby,” said Sam. She poked him again. “Ow! Stop it.”

Dean turned to look at Castiel. “Take care of my brother,” he said quietly.

“You’re not going to die,” he whispered back.

Dean shrugged, and his smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Just in case.” He turned around. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

He took a step forward, but the demon stopped him.

“Hold on. Are you just going to come at me like this? How do I know you're not armed?”

Dean raised his hands in the air so she could see inside his jacket. “You can pat me down if you want.”

Castiel cleared his throat. “He wanted me to tie him up because he’s too intimidating for any demon to get close to him like this. I doubted that.”

“You don’t tell the demon that!” Dean hissed at him.

“Too intimidating?” Ruby laughed. “Please.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“How did you get him on board with this?”

“Oh, it wasn’t hard. He’s so attached to his brother, he’ll do anything for him.”

“It’s crazy, right?”

“Crazy,” he said. “No offense, Sam.” Sam gaped at him, and he was clearly offended.

“Alright, come on down, big boy,” said Ruby. She pushed Sam forward; he could only hop tiny hops with his ankles taped together. Dean proceeded towards the demon with his hands in the air, patting Sam’s shoulder when their paths crossed.

“Stay behind me,” said Castiel when Sam reached him. Dean was already on the other side of the barn, getting patted down by the demon.

“I hope this is a plan,” Sam muttered at him, “And you’re not just throwing my brother into a demon’s hands.”

“Of course it’s a plan,” he hissed back. On the other side of the barn, Ruby finished patting Dean down, and Castiel pulled out a gun and pointed it at her head.

“Now give him back,” he said.

“I don’t think so.” She wrapped an arm around Dean’s chest and put her knife to his throat. “What happened, man? I thought we had an agreement. You said you were sick of him. You said he’s the little spoon.”

“Do you even like my brother?” Sam asked.

He sighed. “Come on. You know you’re not getting out of this. Let him go.”

Ruby was starting to back away, pulling Dean with her. “And then, what? you’ll kill me? Torture me? I’ll take my chances.”

“You really shouldn’t,” said Dean. “He’s a great shot. He once threw a blade at his clone from across the room and hit him right in the back. Long story. Zero practice.” He was looking at Castiel, signaling him something with his eyes.

He tilted his head slightly. _What?_

Dean mouthed at him: _shoe me. _

Wait. No. _Shoot me_

“What are you doing?” Ruby asked. She tightened the knife against his throat, and he recoiled, as much as he could.

He nodded slightly at Castiel over the knife. _Now. _

Ruby was getting farther away with Dean with every second passing. He didn’t know what else to do.

He aimed his gun down, and took the shot.

The bullet hit the ground.

Startled, the demon lost the strength of her grip momentarily. Dean knocked the knife out of her hand.

“Hop, Sammy!” He shouted. “Hop for your life!”

Castiel cut the tape around Sam’s wrists with a knife, and put the knife in his hands. “Go,” he said and turned to Dean, who was grappling with the demon on the ground. She wiggled free of his hold and started getting up, but he yanked her foot and knocked her to the ground again.

“Throw me the demon knife,” he shouted at Castiel.

The demon knife? What did he do with the demon knife?

He checked his jacket pocket. That was where the regular knife was.

“It’s kind of urgent,” Dean called.

“I’m looking,” he yelled back. In his belt? No, that was the guns. He felt up his sleeve; that was the sharp stick.

The Demon wrapped her arm around Dean’s leg. There was a hard _crunch_, and he grunted.

In his back pocket. It was in his back pocket.

He threw the knife across the barn. It fell right by Dean’s hand, and he grabbed it and stuck it in the demon’s chest.

She didn’t glow orange.

They stared at her.

“Wrong knife,” she smirked and pulled the blade out of her body, shoving it into Dean's shoulder. “See ya.”

By the time Castiel crossed the room, she was already gone.

He knelt down beside Dean. “Are you alright?”

"She crushed my leg,” Dean grunted. He looked around the barn. “Where’s Sam?”

“I told him to wait outside. Come on, I’ll carry you.”

“I can walk,” said Dean. His jaw was tight with pain.

“You can,” he said, “But you shouldn’t.”

“You’re not carrying me like a chick,” Dean insisted.

“Oh my God, you’re such a baby.” He tore a strip off his shirt and pinned Dean's shoulder to the ground. "This'll only hurt for a moment," he said.

"What?"

He yanked the knife out. Dean clenched his teeth, sucking in a forceful breath through his nostrils. 

"It's done," Castiel said as he tightened the torn cloth around the wound. "I'm done."

"I'm good," Dean huffed bravely, although his voice was close to breaking.

He helped Dean up carefully and wrapped an arm around his waist for support.

“Don’t let go,” Dean mumbled.

“I’m not letting go.”

They managed to get to the car. Sam was leaning against it, waiting. He stood upright when he saw them approach.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice was strained.

“His leg is broken,” said Castiel. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“Jesus.” Sam opened the car door for his brother, looking at Castiel. “Does he lie to me often?”

“Um...”

“Don’t answer that,” Dean called from inside the car.

“Define often.”

Sam shook his head disbelievingly.

“That’s okay,” said Castiel. “He lies to me about getting injured too.”

From inside the car: “No, I don’t!”

Sam smiled. “He can be such a butt.”

“Such a butt,” Castiel smiled back.

When he got into the driver’s seat, Dean pouted at him. “Will you stop bonding with people over how annoying they find me?”

Sam’s head appeared from the backseat. “Don’t agree to that,” he said. “You could bond with half the planet.”

They waited hours at the hospital.

Eventually, Dean was given painkillers and sent to an X-ray scan.

Sam was leaving to get coffee when he got out into the waiting hall with crutches, his leg in a cast.

“How are you feeling?” He asked.

“I’m fine.” Dean sat down in a chair heavily. “They gave me a bunch of pills. Don’t worry about it.”

“Alright, I’m getting coffee and... I’ll meet you by the car?”

Castiel nodded.

Sam left, and he turned to Dean. “He had a good point about you lying to him earlier.”

Dean looked up at him from his chair with a gape. “You are... So tall.”

“Painkillers?” Castiel asked.

“A bunch of 'em,” he said. “Why? Did I say something weird?” He tugged on Castiel’s sleeve. “Cas, what did I say?”

“Nothing. Come on, let’s get you in the car.”

“I was in so much pain earlier,” Dean sighed as he pulled him up. “I just didn’t want Sam to worry ‘bout me.”

“I’m glad we agree on the no lying thing,” Castiel muttered. Dean sank into his chest.

“Hold me.”

“Alright.” He patted Dean’s shoulder. “There you go.”

He helped Dean limp to the car, where Sam waited with three cups, and the three of them made their way back home.

The first night with Sam in the apartment was mayhem. They had nothing prepared, and Sam hadn’t been planning for the trip before he was kidnapped. But, he was safe and sound, and stayed out of their way while they were attempting to cook dinner.

“Look in the bottom of the closet,” Dean told him. “There should be a sleeping bag under the Guns N’ Roses swimsuits.”

Castiel looked at him with concern. “Plural?”

His only reply was, “Pass me the salt.” He hopped around the kitchen on one leg, using the counter for support.

“Get out of my way,” Castiel said to him.

“I’m making dinner,” he protested.

“You’re delaying dinner. You need to rest. Alright, so...” He looked around the kitchen. “What are we making?”

“See, you need me,” said Dean, but he said it while sitting down in a chair. Castiel turned to look at him, his hands on his hips.

“Of course I need you.”

“Are we still talking about making dinner, or...?” Dean smiled.

“Shut up. What are we making?”

“Veggie noodles,” said Dean. “There’s noodles in the cabinet. And vegetables in the fridge. And a spoon in the...”

“Dean, I live here. I know where the cutlery is.” He put the ingredients on the counter and opened the drawer, grabbing a spoon, when he noticed something else there. “What’s this?” He asked, taking it out of the drawer and examining it. “You have an eye removal torturing device in your kitchen?”

“That’s an ice cream scoop, Cas.”

“Oh. Alright. Moving on.” He closed the drawer. “Where did you say the noodles were?”

“I thought you lived here,” said Dean dryly.

“I do, and we always get pizza instead of cooking.”

“It’s in the cabinet,” said Dean.

He opened the cabinet and went through it. The first item was expired. So was the second. And the third. 

“Everything in this shelf is expired,” he said. Dean stretched his neck to look.

“Yeah. It’s the expired shelf.”

“Good Lord.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“This is taking too long,” said Dean and wobbled in his seat. “I’m taking over.”

“No, you’re not.”

But he was already standing.

“How ‘bout we cooperate like adults,” he said. “Because we,” He put a hand on the counter for emphasis (or maybe because he needed the support). “Are adults.”

“Fine. Sounds good.”

They burned everything.

Somehow, Dean forgot to put water in the pot, and Castiel turned the stove on too high.

“We suck at being adults,” said Dean thirty minutes later, throwing into the sink a towel he’d somehow managed to get burning hot and soaked wet at the same time.

“No,” said Castiel. “Being adults sucks at... us.”

“The upside of being an adult, though, is that no one can tell you to be an adult,” Dean grinned. “So... takeout?”

Another thirty minutes passed, and they were sitting around the dining table with two pizza trays between them.

“You guys are so lucky you can do whatever you want,” said Sam.

“I’m not sure that’s for the best,” Castiel answered.

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” Dean patted his head. “You’ll get there.” He stood up with an effort. “Be back in a sec. And no, I don’t need help peeing,” he added when they both started standing up.

Dean waddled into the bathroom, and they were left alone in the kitchen.

“This is awkward,” said Castiel. He’d never spent time alone with Sam outside a hospital, or without someone around them being in mortal danger.

Sam played with the leftover crust of his pizza.

“So how’s school?” Castiel asked after a moment. He wasn’t sure how one went about a conversation with a fifteen year old.

“Okay,” said Sam.

Maybe not by asking them about school during summer break.

“Dean really misses you.”

“We talk all the time,” said Sam.

“I know. He’s just worried about you.”

“I’m doing alright.”

Castiel smiled. “I know.”

Sam smiled in response. “He can be like that.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, he won’t shut up about you.”

“Complaining?” Asked Castiel.

“Mostly,” Sam laughed. “But in a loving kind of way. Like, he said you made him eat a salad once.”

“An experience neither of us will ever repeat.”

Sam was quiet for a while. He moved his crust around his plate, trying to word something out.

“You know, he’s the only example I have of... anything,” he said finally.

“Yeah.”

“And he’s told me you’re starting college in a couple of months.”

“Yeah.”

“He isn’t,” said Sam. It was almost a question.

“Sometimes I think he would be if he'd known he was going to get his diploma,” said Castiel.

Sam hesitated. “Aren’t you ever afraid you’re gonna... fall away?” he asked finally, his eyebrows pulling together.

Castiel stared at his hands. “I’ve thought about that,” he said. “I’ve thought about it a lot. But your brother... Do you know what he said to me when we were at our lowest point?”

Sam shook his head slightly.

“We were having the worst fight we’ve ever had, and he said to me, ‘I'm not willing to let go’. And then, months later, while all I could think about was how I’m not going to see him every day and how that was going to affect us, he asked me to move in with him. Every time I doubted myself, doubted him – he carried us through it. And I’d like to think I’ve been doing the same thing for him when he needed it. So, yes, I am afraid. But I also have faith in us, every day more than I had the day before.”

A ruckus came out of the bathroom, and the door swung open.

“There might be a spider in there,” Dean said, approaching them on his crutches. “And... it might still be alive.” He stopped and examined their faces. “What were you talking about?”

Sam glanced at him, and turned to Dean. “I was just telling Cas the story about how you were nervous of your first day of elementary school so you ate an entire Ben & Jerry’s container and then barfed on your first grade teacher during reading time."

“Aw, come on, you snitch.”

Castiel got up from his chair. “I’m going to check on the spider.” He looked at Sam. “But I _really_ want to hear more about the first grade barf.”

“I’ve got you,” said Sam before he left.

“Hey, Dean?” Castiel yelled from the bathroom. “Why did you leave your underwear on the floor?”

“My leg is broken,” Dean yelled back.

“It was there before we left.”

There was a suspicious silence coming from the kitchen.

“I’m not picking it up,” he called.

“You’re gonna have to!” Said Dean. “’Cause my leg is broken.” In the kitchen, he said to Sam – and Castiel could hear the smile in his voice: “True love, Sammy. It sucks ass. Get ready to pick up tons of undies.”


	18. There's No Place Like Home

Dean still had his leg in a cast when August thirty-first came along and it was time for Castiel to leave for college.

“I’m sorry I can’t drive you,” he said for the hundredth time.

“It’s for the best,” said Castiel. “Clean cut, you know.” He couldn’t imagine an hour-long drive with Dean, sitting in silence and feeling time slip from between their fingers like sand until they had to say goodbye.

The look on Dean’s face made it inferable that he did not agree.

Castiel tried to ignore it.

“What did I forget?” He said, just to say something, and looked around the room.

“Toothbrush,” said Dean.

“Got it.”

“Weapons.”

“Got them.”

“Boyfriend?”

“I can always buy another one there.”

“Shut up.” Dean smiled. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he said when Castiel lifted his duffel bag.

“Come on. Your leg is broken.”

“Not anymore,” said Dean. “They’re taking the cast off this week.”

“Right. Well, it’s a hassle.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Dean,” he said.

Dean didn’t answer. He looked away, his jaw tight, and Castiel saw that he was making it worse.

He walked over to him and took his hand.

“I would love it if you walked me to the bus,” he said. Dean’s smile, if halfhearted, was worth it.

“I’ll miss you,” he said when they got to the bus stop.

“What about buying a boyfriend?” Dean asked.

“I’ve thought about it, and it’s not very economical,” he answered. “I’m paying double rent now.” He nodded at a bus that was making its way down the street. “That’s me.”

Dean pulled him into a hug. “Hey, Cas?” He said over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“If you leave me for some pretty college chick, I will go down there, and I will find you. And I _will _sit on you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Castiel. He broke off their hug, and looked into Dean’s eyes. Then he kissed him.

“I’ll see you this weekend,” Dean called as he got onto the bus.

“I’ll text you when I get there,” He called back.

“Text me from the bus!”

And as he took a seat, the bus started driving. He watched Dean until they couldn’t see each other anymore.

The weather forecast said it would rain.

It wasn’t raining yet, but the sky was gray enough to wash the earth in a dimmer light.

This was good.

It was... It was good.

Of course he was excited about college. Finally being on his own, like he always wanted.

Only, until Dean came along, he never accounted for having to leave someone behind that he didn’t want to leave. Leaving his father – that he had expected. And he knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he was ready.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to leave Dean.

They would see each other every weekend. It wasn’t a real goodbye, he knew that. But it was also painfully clear that the next time they would live together again, see each other every day again like they had for so long, would be in three years.

He tried not to think about it.

Two hours and one bus exchange later, he was stepping onto the sidewalk of his new home.

He checked his dorm address on his phone; the building was right in front of him. Second floor, room twenty four. With someone named Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth. Judging by the name, his roommate was going to be a pretentious pain in the ass know-it-all. He walked into the building and climbed up the stairs.

There was something fresh in air he’d never breathed before. New paths, new trees, new buildings. He walked down the hall until he got to room twenty four and opened the door. Inside were two beds, an old desk with a chair, a closet, and a door to the shower. One bed was vacant.

The other had a sock on it.

He looked around the room. No one was there. He stepped closer to the bed: there was a bag at its foot, and an army green jacket on the bag. And the sock. The sock had a face. Red lips and blue buttons for eyes – like someone had turned it into a child’s toy.

He threw his bag on the second bed and went into the bathroom to wash his face. Then he texted Dean: _I’m here. _Followed by another text: O_r... there._

Dean texted back immediately. **_how is it?_**

_It’s adequate._

**_Have you ever considered picking up poetry_ _?_**

So, this was his new life. A narrow bed. Guys calling each other Chad in the hall. A relationship with his boyfriend that concluded in exchanging texts about the adequacy or inadequacy of rooms. He supposed he should go out and explore. He shoved his phone in his pocket and left the room.

On his way down - another text from Dean. **_Are you settling in?_**

_I'm exploring._

** _Go for it, Dora. _ **

_What?_

The campus was weirdly serene. There were paths of gravel and green grass and trees everywhere, carrying leaves in every color of autumn.

His phone buzzed: **_nvm._**

_It’s really nice here._

**_You know that, _**Dean wrote. **_You’ve been there before. _**

_It’s different, imagining yourself in a situation and actually being in it. _

He looked around and read the signs. There was a cafeteria to his left, and a library behind it. On the other side were the classrooms.

Students passed by him, none of them looking as lost as he felt. Everyone had something to do.

And then, in the distance, another lost student.

“Meg!” He waved her, and she walked towards him. They met in the middle, by some picnic tables that were spread across a lawn.

“What’s up, dumbass?”

“Do you have to be mean?”

“Yes.” She eyed his pocket. “What’s up with your phone?”

It was buzzing every thirty seconds or so. “Dean,” he said, no further explanation. Meg nodded.

“Wanna sit at a table and mock other people?” 

“I could do without the mocking, but sure.”

Meg sat at a table, and he sat down beside her. He had four new messages from Dean:

** _Sure, but still._ **

** _Aw man, I dropped a pretzel into my coffee_ **

** _And now I spilled coffee on my cast. This is great_ **

** _Don’t worry or anything I’m fine_ **

_Are you alright? _He wrote back. _I found Meg._

“He’s needy,” said Meg. She waved a group of students over and put up her palm. “Gimme.”

Castiel looked at her blankly.

She grabbed his phone, and recorded a voice message.

“Stop being a needy bitch, Winchester.”

Castiel snatched his phone back. “Stop being mean.”

“It’s in his interest,” said Meg. “I’m easing him into his new life.”

“Easing?” Asked Castiel. Dean texted back: **_???????_**

Meg took his phone again. “I stole your boyfriend, and you’re going to die alone,” she said into it.

“You’re nasty.”

“What’d you do?” Asked a guy – one of the three Meg had waved over. He was tall and lanky, and sat down on the other side of the table. Beside him sat a smaller guy and a girl.

“A social service,” said Meg.

_Don’t mind her, _he wrote Dean.

“Hey,” Meg patted his arm to make him look up from his phone. “These are some people who were in my dorm when I got there. This one’s in my room.” She pointed at the girl. “I don’t remember your names.”

“I’m Castiel,” said Castiel. “It’s, eh... nice to meet you.”

“Castiel?” Asked the lanky one. “I think we share a room. I’m Garth.” He reached out a hand for Castiel to shake.

Castiel looked at the hand.

“Nice to meet you,” said Garth. “These are... What are your names?”

“No one remembers each other’s names yet,” Meg mumbled to him.

“I’m Hannah,” said the girl.

“Kevin,” said the small guy.

"Hannah?" Castiel squinted his eyes at her. She shrugged lightly, as if feeling insulted but already working to brush it off.

"We went to middle school together."

"Oh." 

Hannah looked down at the table.

This was awkward.

“So you’ve got a girlfriend, huh?” Asked Garth. Castiel and Meg exchanged nervous looks.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” said Garth. “Just what Meg said earlier about stealing you. I get it. I’ve got a girl myself. Bess.”

“Me too,” said Kevin.

Between Kevin and Garth, Hannah was looking at him.

“...Her name isn’t Bess,” Kevin added when no one said anything.

Hannah didn’t mention a partner. And she was still looking at him.

“Yes,” he said, his reaction somewhat delayed. “I, too, have a girlfriend. A female girlfriend.”

Meg gave him a weird look.

“A girlfriend who is, um...”

“Female?” Meg offered.

“Yes.”

Now they were all looking at him weird.

“He’s a strange guy,” said Meg. “You get used to it.”

“Sorry I didn’t back you up earlier,” she said that night on their way back from dinner. “But after pretending to date one of you for a week, I wasn’t going to pretend to date another one of you for three years... You know.”

“I didn’t mean it to be a thing,” he said. “I just hoped to maybe get settled in before I fan out my dirty laundry.”

“Yeah, well, it’s pretty hard to tell people something while they’re assuming the opposite,” said Meg. The road intersected into two, and she stopped. “That’s me,” she pointed her thumb in the girls’ dorms direction. “See you tomorrow?”

“See you,” said Castiel. They didn’t have any classes together, but it was a relief to have one familiar (if not friendly) face in the crowd. It sure made sitting in the cafeteria less awkward.

He noticed something while walking past the bulletin board in the entrance to his dorms. A job ad. **Need the cash but don’t know what to do? We’re here for you!** There was a phone number at the bottom.** Career counselling for students. Make a call today!**

The rest of the board was filled with old ads about lost possessions. There was one about a guy who talked to a girl in the paleontology section of the library and never got her number. **Something just felt right,** it said. **Call me, maybe?**

He took a picture for Dean, receiving an answer a moment later: **_gross._**

_I thought you’d think it was sweet_

** _...I do_ **

** _But you probably don’t_ **

_Correct. I find it amusing, _he wrote.

** _See, I need to pretend I’m hardcore to impress you._ **

_I don’t quite see the point in that, _he wrote back. _A, your pretenses aren’t working. I’m never going to think you’re ‘hard core’. And B, you don’t need to impress me. You’ve got me. _

He got into his room and closed the door behind him. Garth looked up from a book and waved at him from his bed. He had earphones on.

He waved back and sat on his own bed.

Another message from Dean: **_I’d still rather, while having you, that you’d respect me_**

_You’ve got a point, _he wrote back. He made his bed and unpacked his things on his side of the room. It didn’t take long. Then he took a look at Garth and his earphones, and called Dean.

“Hey.” Dean answered after one ring.

Castiel leaned back against the wall and looked out the window. There wasn’t much to see except a tree.

“Hey,” he said back.

“How was your day?” Hearing Dean’s voice felt like coming home. He almost couldn’t believe they had seen each other less than twelve hours ago.

“Okay,” he said.

“I miss you already,” said Dean.

“Me too.” He didn’t sound like he meant it. But he did.

He didn't know how to say, _life without you is okay, but it's only okay, and it can never be more than that. _

Neither of them spoke for a while.

“You should probably get some sleep,” Dean said finally.

“Yeah, you too.”

“Goodnight,” said Dean, but before he could hang up:

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Love you.”

There was a pause. When Dean spoke, his voice was soft, and just a little amused. “Love you too, Cas.”

By the time he brushed his teeth and changed, Garth was tucked into his bed, reading his book in the light of his night lamp.

“Good night,” Castiel said to him. He got into his bed and closed his eyes.

He heard Garth behind him: “Good night.”

But he couldn’t fall asleep. He tossed and turned and eventually, Garth asked,

“You alright, man?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just trying to get used to sleeping alone again.”

“Do you want me to cuddle you?” Garth asked. He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll let you be the big spoon. Everyone likes being the big spoon. It makes you feel tough.”

He didn’t know what exactly the guy had in mind, being under the impression that they were both straight and taken.

He shook his head. “Everyone likes to be the little spoon,” he said hollowly, and turned his back to the darkened room. “It makes you feel safe.”

“Whatever floats your boat, man.” 

And he still couldn’t fall asleep. He hadn’t realized how different this would be. The bed was cold. The walls were a different shade of white. Even the sounds of the night outside were different.

He wanted to reach for his phone and text Dean.

Instead he just closed his eyes and forced his mind to empty.

Classes started the next morning. He hadn’t picked a major yet, and his courses were diverse. American literature, physics, ancient religions, boxing. As far as school could go, it didn’t feel like it was ever going to get boring. At lunch he met Garth in the cafeteria and they sat together. The group seemed to form itself: Garth, Meg, Hannah, Kevin and himself. It was a bit of an odd combination. Kevin was always staring at his tablet. Hannah agreed with anything Castiel said. Meg didn’t get along with anyone but him. Garth got along with everyone, maybe a little too well.

“Bess didn’t want me to go,” he said at lunch. “She got into a university upstate, and she didn’t want to be far away from each other. But I told her long distance can work.”

Castiel moved his food around his plate. “It’s harder than it seems,” he said.

“Yeah, but it can work,” said Garth.

“Yes,” he said. “But it’s harder than it seems.”

“Channing didn’t talk to me for a week when she found out I’m going here.”

“Why?” Castiel asked.

“She’s very driven,” said Kevin. “And I am, too, you know. It’s just sometimes more important things come up.”

He didn’t know what Kevin meant. He couldn’t imagine not talking to Dean for a week. He supposed they just weren’t that kind of couple. Sure, they had fights, and they had problems, and they annoyed each other, but they always worked through it. It was always painfully apparent how much they wanted one another to stick around. And now he was wanting Dean there, missing his jokes, his touch, his genuine smile that went all the way up to his eyes.

But as the week went on, everyone was getting accustomed to this new situation. He had his classes, and his friends, and things started to feel normal here. Garth and him made an arrangement that split the days between them using the desk in their room: he got Tuesdays and Thursdays and half of Monday.

Dean wasn’t texting him as much anymore. In fact, come Thursday night, he realized Dean hadn’t texted him at all that day. And he hadn’t texted Dean.

He sat down on his bed in his dorm room. He supposed he could do homework.

Garth sat on his bed five feet away, doing something on his computer.

It was still a little weird, being on his own again. No one to eat old pizza with, or complain to about their misplaces underwear. No making rubber band balls for an entire day.

Just Garth.

“I’m going to take a walk,” he said and left the room. Down on the gravel path, he called Dean.

“’Sup.” Dean answered the phone on the first ring.

“That was quick,” he said.

“I just got off the phone with Bobby. How was your day?”

“It was good.”

Dean’s reply was delayed. “Yeah.”

“Are you in the middle of something?”

“Uhh...” There was the sound of typing on the other end. “No.”

“How was yours?” He asked.

“Huh?”

“Your day.”

“Oh. Good. I’m keeping busy,” said Dean.

“Yeah? With what?”

“Just some hunting stuff.”

A gust of wind rattled the leaves around him.

“I can’t wait to be home,” he said, and closed the zipper of his jacket.

“I thought you were having fun there,” Dean said.

“I am. It’s just...” He looked around in the dark. “There’s no place like home.”

A car honked in the parking lot.

“Where are you?”

“Taking a walk,” he said.

“Isn’t it freezing out?” Dean asked.

“Not really. Either way, I didn’t really want to do this in front of my roommate.”

“This, being... making a phone call?”

“They think I have a girlfriend,” he explained.

“Oh,” said Dean. “Well... what are you gonna do about that?”

“I thought I’d give it a few days.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

There was the sound of typing again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Castiel.

“A’ight. Text me from the bus and I’ll come pick you up from the station.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Good night.”

“Night, Cas,” Dean mumbled back, and it was clear his mind was already somewhere else.

The next day, classes couldn’t go by any slower. The bus drive could not go by any slower. Finally, he got off the bus and walked up the stairs home.

He put his key inside the lock and took a deep breath. Then he turned the key.

“I’m home,” he announced as he entered, dropping his bag on the ground and taking off his coat.

The way Dean’s face lit up made his stomach flip once and then once more.

“You said you’d call from station.” Dean stood up and hugged him, perhaps a little too tightly.

“I know. My phone died,” he said. Dean kissed him. “How’s your leg?” 

“It’s free!” Dean grinned. “Finally free. Look, I can walk.” And he demonstrated.

God, he missed this big buffoon.

Dean went back and sat at the table. “You hungry? There’s pizza in the fridge.” Not a moment passed and he was lost in his laptop screen.

Castiel opened the fridge and grabbed a cold slice of pizza.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Just working on this case,” Dean answered.

“Anything I can help with?”

Dean looked at him thoughtfully. “Would help if you were a blond girl. We could use you as bait.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty big deal. I’m helping Bobby with it.”

Castiel took a seat beside him and took a look around. Not that it had been particularly clean before he left – but the place didn’t look too good now, either.

“Have you been doing anything but work on this case in the past week?” He asked. Dean didn’t raise his eyes from the laptop to answer.

“Nope.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked warily.

“Nothing to talk about,” said Dean. “You left, Sammy left, and I got my leg back, all in one week. I needed something to do. So, this worked out great.”

“Yeah.” Castiel watched him as he typed frantically. “...Great.”

“There’s something else Bobby mentioned,” Dean said. He hesitated. Then he closed his laptop and turned to Castiel. “So you know the holidays?”

“I am familiar with the concept,” Castiel confirmed.

“Well,” Dean said. “Since we technically spent last Christmas with your family...”

“Saving them from murder,” he said.

“Yeah. Anyway, we could maybe spend this one with mine?”

“Oh. Sure,” he said, watching Dean’s tense expression. “Why are we thinking about this now?”

“Because they... kind of invited us?”

“Four months in advance?” He asked.

“Yeah, and Bobby sounded really uptight about it when we talked. I think it's going to be super uncomfortable.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “More uncomfortable than when I told my entire homophobic family I was dating a guy during spaghetti time?”

“Yeah, well, you haven't spent the holidays with a bunch of hunters before,” said Dean. “Winchester holidays are something special.”

Castiel took his hand. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

“No, I’m...” Dean huffed, and shook his head at their hands. “I’m actually looking forward to it. You know, Sammy and I don’t get a lot of family moments, especially not in the past two years... And you’ll be there, so.”

He wanted to make a joke. But he looked at Dean’s face, and something there stopped him on his tracks.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be there.”


	19. Family Matters

The first months of college flew by. Everything was a mess – the classes, the meals, the weekends – and in getting accustomed to it, Castiel barely noticed time passing. Halloween came and went, and the trees shed all their leaves. He’d gotten used to life on campus and submerged himself in studying, as much as Dean did with hunting. And by the beginning of winter, Castiel’s life fell into a natural routine.

On Christmas Eve he was getting ready to leave for winter break. On the other side of the room, Garth was packing, too.

“Are you spending the holidays with your family?” He asked Garth.

“Nah,” said Garth. “Bess’ family. You?”

He picked up a pair of socks and looked at them before shoving them into his bag. “Same,” he said tonelessly. He glanced at his roommate and sent a hand under his pillow, inconspicuously placing the knife that was there in his bag. Now he just had to get the ones under the desk and inside one of the shower tiles.

“Does she have a big family?” Asked Garth.

“No,” he said, turning to Garth.

He couldn’t do this anymore. It was silly to think that not telling the truth would be a good idea in the first place.

“Actually-”

His phone rang.

He stood in place, gritting his teeth. Garth eyed him.

“Your phone is ringing, amigo.”

He answered the phone.

“S'up? I’m here.” It was Dean. “I... think. Does your dorm building have a graffiti of Spiderman and Deadpool making out on it?”

“I don’t know,” said Castiel. “Who are those?”

“Does... any other building around here have a graffiti of two comic book characters on top of each other?” Dean asked.

“No. That’s the one,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

He’s been here for almost four months now, and this was the first time Dean has visited. And it wasn’t because he minded the drive; in fact, he’d made it quite clear that he didn’t.

This had to end.

It had to end... after Christmas. Right after Christmas.

“That was my ride,” he told Garth. “Have a good time with Bess.”

“You too,” said Garth. “With your... what did you say her name was?”

“Nice try,” he shot. His friends thought he was being mysterious when he wouldn’t tell them anything about his made-up girlfriend. That didn’t stop them from trying to find out any detail they could about her; if anything, it just made them more determined. When they found out Meg knew more than them they almost tied her up and tortured her for information.

“See you next year,” said Garth before Castiel left.

Dean was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against his car. When Castiel approached he gestured at something behind him with his chin. Castiel turned to look: it was the graffiti.

“Which is which?” He asked, squinting to make the painting out in the dark.

"Spiderman's the red one," said Dean. 

Castiel squinted harder. Dean let out a snort.

"I'm kidding. They're both red. Let's go."

“How come you never made me watch this?” He asked suspiciously as they got into the car.

“I kind of gave up after I tried making you watch _All Saints' Day 4: Hatchet Man Lives _three times and you said it was boring,” said Dean. “Who the hell calls a horror movie boring? You’re too busy being scared for your life to be bored.” He backed out of his spot and got on the road.

In ten short hours, they’d be at Bobby’s.

"Who makes four movies about a dead mechanic trying to kill people on Halloween? This is not what a compelling concept looks like, Dean. Just another monster."

Dean just shook his head.

“So what about your dad?” he asked after a few moments.

“What about him?”

“Is he staying home, or...?”

“I think Michael invited him over,” he said.

“Was he bummed when he heard you’re not coming?” Dean asked.

“Not really. He told me to tell you merry Christmas.”

Dean watched the road for a few moments.

“Were you bummed you’re not going?” He asked then.

Castiel looked at him. “How do you mean?”

“Just- you know. Ten hour drive with me to spend the holiday with strangers versus four hours in the car with your dad and holiday with your family.”

“An upgrade,” he said. 

Dean shook his head. “Is he staying sober?” He asked.

“I think so.”

“Good for him."

“Yeah.”

Except he didn’t know how long Chuck could do this. Alone in his big house, driving himself crazy with his writings. Someone else, maybe. But him? Castiel feared it was just a matter of time.

He just didn’t know, a matter of time until _what_.

Sam was the one to open the door.

“You’re just on time,” he grinned and gave them both a hug. “Come in. Ellen and Jo aren’t here yet.”

“So, technically, we’re early,” said Dean.

“I don’t think you can be _early _anywhere after a ten hour drive with one stop,” said Castiel and walked in after him.

Dean stood in the middle of the room and looked around. “Dude. It’s seven p.m. How come you haven’t decorated yet?”

“Bobby’s finishing up in the kitchen, Ellen and Jo are stuck in traffic, and Charlie is taking a shower upstairs to get werewolf blood off her, so...” He gestured at a Christmas tree in a corner of the living room. “I started on my own.”

“Well, it looks great,” Dean said sarcastically. There was one ornament on the bare tree: a baby Jesus sitting at the very top.

“We can help decorate,” said Castiel.

“Yeah, I just wanna say hi to Bobby.” Dean looked at him and tilted his head in the direction of what would be the kitchen, and Castiel followed him there.

The kitchen sure smelled like Christmas. Pans and pots were everywhere, from the counter to the table to the floor.

Dean leaned sideways into him and whispered: “Are you nervous?”

“I am now,” he muttered back, but Dean went and called Bobby’s name anyway. He turned around with a ladle in his hand and an apron that read _kiss the cook_.

"We're here," said Dean was a grin. “This is Cas.” For a moment, he almost looked proud.

Bobby wiped his hands on a towel and shook Castiel’s hand. “Nice to meet you, son.”

“We’re going to help Sam decorate the tree,” said Dean. “How come you haven’t done it yet?”

“Eh... I’ve been busy,” said Bobby and grabbed a spoon. “I should get back to the stove or we’ll be eating burnt goo for dinner.”

Dean took another look at him and led the way out of the room.

“Was that weird or what?” He asked on the way back to the living room.

"What?"

"Him. The way he was avoiding me."

“I think you’re reading into it,” said Castiel. He couldn't tell what in Bobby's behavior set Dean off.

In the living room, Sam was untangling fairy lights on the carpet.

“We’ve got this,” said Dean and took the tangle. “You handle the balls.”

Sam looked at him innocently. “I thought that was your job.”

“Ha.” Dean flung a snowflake ornament at him, and it hit his shoulder.

“Ow.”

Castiel took a look at the fairy light tangle. “Dean, I don’t think we got this,” he said. They were extremely tangled.

“A college student and a hunter against some big knot?” Asked Dean and sat down on the carpet. “I’ll take my chances.” He tugged on Castiel’s sweater sleeve. “Come on. Shit’s about to get festive.”

It took them over twenty minutes to untangle half the knot, and another ten to give up on the other half.

“This is nice,” said Dean, holding a tangle in the shape of a circle. “It’s like a glowing fairy tiara.” He placed it on Castiel’s head, and appraised him for a moment. “_Now _you’re pretty.”

He shook his head, and the lights swayed with him.

“I’d do the same to you, but I don’t think there’s anything that can fix your face.” He took the lights off his head and let them rest between Dean and him.

Dean smiled at him sweetly. “You’re an ass,” he said, and looked at him like he was about to reach out and kiss him. And then he did, and suddenly Castiel was thinking about their first kiss, a year and a half ago, on the floor of their house. In the afternoon sun, with Dean’s amulet between them, glowing like one of those lights.

“Ew,” said Sam from the couch. Dean put his palm in front of his brother’s face and kissed Castiel again.

“Stop the pain,” said Sam.

“You’re always pretty,” he told Dean. There was the sound of footsteps behind them, and a red haired girl appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“What’s up, bitches?” She said and knelt down to give Dean a hug, looking at Castiel over his shoulder. “Is that him?”

“So I’m a ‘him’ now?”

“You’re a Cas. This is Cas.”

Charlie waddled on her knees to hug him, too. “He _is _dreamy,” she told Dean, and he elbowed her side hard.

“Ouch.” She put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and assessed him. “We’re going to be best friends.”

“I bet, if you keep telling him things like that,” Dean muttered.

From the kitchen erupted the sound of pots clashing and falling to the floor. Dean and Charlie exchanged looks.

“Sounds like the pots put up a rebellion,” said Charlie.

“We better make sure Bobby won,” said Dean, and they got up. He patted Castiel’s back as they went.

He took the fairy lights and tried placing them in tangles around the tree. Sam got up and helped.

They worked in silence. Sam cleared his throat a couple of times.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asked him.

He didn’t look up from the tree. “Yeah.” But after a moment, he looked up. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“If you had to tell Dean something you knew would upset him... How would you go about it?”

He looked at Sam. “What is it?”

Sam shrugged.

“I would probably just tell him. I’d try to be gentle about it. And I’d hope he remembers all the times he told me things that weren’t easy for him to say.”

Sam nodded at the tree, his jaw tight.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll understand,” Castiel said softly.

“I don’t know,” Sam mumbled.

“I’m sure he’d rather have you tell him than hide things from him.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thanks, Cas.”

Dean and Charlie were back a few minutes later. When the doorbell rang, Dean hopped up to open the door.

“Merry Christmas, kid,” said a woman at the threshold. “We brought beer.” She raised a six pack to show him and went towards the kitchen, greeting everyone in the living room on her way. At the door, a blond girl who must have been Jo was talking to Dean. He spread his arms for a hug, but she fist bumped his shoulder and got inside.

“Hey, Sam,” she said and sat on the couch. At her feet, Charlie was gawking.

Dean sat beside her. “You remember Charlie,” he told her.

“Oh, yeah. Of course. How're you doing?”

“I’m good,” Charlie let out. She turned to Castiel and mouthed: _wow. _He shrugged. She waved her hand dismissively at him, as if she were saying, _you’re a useless partner to admire girls with. _

“And that’s Cas,” said Dean and patted his shoulder. “We’re... dating.”

“Oh,” said Jo, and something in her expression shifted. It became guarded. “Good... good for you. I’m gonna go see if they need any help in the kitchen.” And she got up and left.

“What’s with her?” Dean asked.

“She was just taken aback by the fact that you’re dating someone so incredibly out of your league,” said Sam. Charlie let out a laugh.

“Oh, so you think so too?” Dean nudged her face with his foot.

“Gross,” she said and batted his foot away. She gestured at Castiel. “Have you seen him?”

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment,” said Dean. “If I managed to get someone out of my league for more than one night, that’s gotta be a win, right? Except, who wants to date someone that’s, eh... whatever the opposite of out of their league is?”

“Cas, apparently,” said Charlie, and high-fived Sam.

Castiel leaned his back against the couch and rested his head back on Dean’s feet. “I think you’re just in my league,” he said and patted Dean’s toes.

“Thank you.”

“Then you clearly haven’t seen him slide across a room in his socks and a robe, using a ladle as a microphone and singing passionately to Tiny Dancer,” said Sam.

“I’ve seen everything,” Castiel assured him.

“And that goes both ways, okay?” said Dean and pointed at him. “One time he stepped barefoot on a bullet shell by the bed and got so angry, he...” The deadly look that was sent his way silenced him.

Bobby showed up from the kitchen, then. “Dinner’s ready. Come on.”

The seating arrangement was only slightly uncomfortable. Bobby sat at the head of the table, to his one side Ellen, Jo and Sam, and to his other, Castiel sat between Dean and Charlie. Which meant he had direct eyesight on Jo, whose eyes only rarely moved from Dean – and that was to glance back and forth between her mother and Bobby.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” said Bobby. “I’m glad we all get a chance to sit around the same table every once in a while.”

Only he didn’t seem glad at all. His eyes jumped nervously to Dean and back to his plate as everyone started eating.

Dean leaned sideways into Castiel. “We’re not saying grace or anything,” he said into his ear. “Just a heads up.”

Jo eyed them.

“Cas’ family is extremely religious,” Dean explained. Now everyone was looking at them.

Great.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not... like them.”

“So what’s new?” Jo asked. “I haven’t seen you guys in over a year.”

“Nothing here,” said Bobby. His shoulders were tense. “Sam?”

Sam’s eyes jumped nervously to Castiel and back to his plate. “I’ve got nothing,” he said. “Dean?”

“Uh... They gave me four free jars of tomato sauce at the supermarket this week, so I guess we’re having spaghetti for the next... forever weekends.” He looked at Castiel.

“You live together?” Jo asked quietly. Her dejection was unmistakable. She was quick to cover it with a smooth expression.

“If you can call it that,” said Dean, elbowing his side as though cuing him to laugh at a joke. “Cas is in college, so it’s just for the weekends for now.”

Having been looking into his plate miserably, Sam cleared his throat now. “Actually, I do have something.”

Dean turned to look at him, and now Sam was looking at Castiel like he was regretting ever having spoken. Castiel sent him a reassuring look – or at least, he tried to make it reassuring.

Sam inhaled, and said: “I have a girlfriend.”

He didn’t exhale.

Dean’s face turned to stone. Bobby and Ellen eyed him.

“What?” He said from between his teeth.

For a moment, everyone was silent. Then Charlie said, in the most natural, chatty tone:

“Nice. What’s her name?”

“Jess,” said Sam warily, his eyes on Dean.

“That’s great,” said Charlie. She looked around the table. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Castiel. Under the table, he placed a hand on Dean’s knee.

“How long?” Dean asked. He wasn’t asking out of interest. His voice was thin with disapproval.

“Three weeks,” said Sam. “Dean...”

“Don’t you think you’re a bit too young?”

Castiel squeezed his knee beneath the table.

Sam didn’t answer. But Dean kept glaring at him, and finally, he let out a weak “No?”

To their right, Bobby cleared his throat. “Didn’t you start dating around that age, too?”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Dean argued defensively.

“How is that different?” Asked Sam.

“’Cause you should learn from my mistakes!”

“Yeah, I’m sure you had an awful time feeling up girls behind the auditorium,” said Charlie.

“It’s not the same,” Dean said insistently from between his teeth.

“There’s no harm in it,” Castiel said quietly.

For a long moment, everyone was silent.

“So what do you guys think about corgis?” Charlie asked then. “I’m thinking of getting one.”

Her effort wasn’t entirely futile. Dean still looked like he wanted to smash something, but Sam looked somewhat relieved now that the focus was off him.

“Corgis?” Asked Jo. “I fucking love ‘em.”

No one said much for the rest of the meal.

After dinner, Sam volunteered to wash the dishes. Dean started following him to the sink, but Castiel stopped him.

“Can I talk to you?” He asked. Dean followed him to a corner behind the stairs.

“What else is he hiding from me?” He muttered and buried his face in Castiel’s shoulder.

“You’ll have to actually ask him,” he answered. “And not be such a big brother about it. Otherwise he won’t feel like he can tell you anything.”

“God, I hate when you’re right,” Dean said into his chest. He lifted his head. “It’s just– fifteen is so young, you know? What if he’s making a mistake, and he’s not even realizing it?”

“Nineteen is pretty young to move in together, too, isn’t it?” He pointed out.

“Yeah, but that’s different,” said Dean.

“Why? Because you can do no wrong?”

“Exactly,” Dean smiled halfheartedly.

He almost felt like rolling his eyes.

Dean started pulling away, but he stopped him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Have you and Jo ever...” He trailed off. Dean’s eyebrows furrowed.

“No. Why?”

“Just the way she’s been looking at you,” he said. Dean snorted.

“What?”

“She looks at me normal,” said Dean.

“Do you really not see it?”

“There’s nothing to see,” Dean insisted.

He raised his palms defensively. “Fine.”

Dean looked at him for a moment more. “Nothing,” he said.

“Fine.”

Dean turned away. And then he turned back.

“Should I ask her about it?”

“I mean, if you think it’s nothing...” He started saying.

“I should ask her about it,” said Dean, “And then you’ll see.”

“Eh... sure.”

He followed Dean to the living room, and sat on the couch while Dean said something to Jo and they left the room together.

Sam came to sit beside him, and Charlie picked a spot on the rug.

“Thanks for having my back, guys,” said Sam.

“Don’t mind Dean,” said Charlie and patted his leg. “He’s just being a dick. Right, Cas?”

“He’s just looking out for you,” he answered. “He might be unreasonable, but he has good intentions.”

Sam looked at him, troubled. “Is he?” He asked. “Being unreasonable?”

“Please,” said Charlie. “He’s made a thousand mistakes in his life.”

“Making mistakes isn’t something you should always avoid,” Castiel offered. “Sometimes you need to learn things your own way. That’s okay.”

Charlie nodded in approval.

“Thanks, you guys,” Sam said.

Dean appeared from the direction of the stairs and caught Castiel's eye.

“Excuse me,” he said and got up to meet Dean outside the room.

“So?” He asked.

Dean’s eyes followed the collar of his shirt. “Yeah,” he said. “For a while now.”

He didn’t say anything. Dean wasn’t looking at him.

Finally, Dean cleared his throat.

“I think I need a glass of water,” he said. Castiel followed him to the kitchen. But right before they entered, Dean took a step back and put a hand on his chest to stop him. He tilted his head to listen, looking at Castiel silently.

Inside, Bobby was talking to someone.

“You saw how mad he got,” he was saying.

Ellen was the one to answer him. “We’re not fifteen anymore, Bobby. This isn’t some teenage fling we’re supposed to hide from our parents.”

“I know,” said Bobby. “But it’s the holidays. You know? I don’t want to upset him.”

The expression that crossed Dean’s face made Castiel reach out and grab his arm, but it was too late. He barged into the room, pointing his finger at them.

“You two?” He asked. “How long?”

“Dean...”

“How long?” He repeated, slow and seething. “You know what? I don’t even want to know.”

He stormed past Castiel and into the living room. Bobby and Ellen rushed after him.

“Does anyone else have a secret?” He snapped. Charlie, Sam and Jo looked up at him from the couch, startled. “Anyone dating a vampire, maybe? Or a demon? Anyone banging an angel?” His eyes skipped from one family member to the other. They were all silent; they were afraid of him. Not of what he might do, or what he might say, but of what he would think. They didn’t want to hurt him any more than they already have.

“I’m good,” said Charlie when he looked at her, raising her palms up as if to prove she was innocent.

Dean looked around him. “I feel like I don’t know anyone in this room,” he said. Then he turned around and walked out. They could all hear his footsteps up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Now it feels like Christmas,” said Charlie into the silence Dean left behind him.

“I’ll go after him,” said Castiel.

He found Dean looking out the window in one of the rooms. His hands were balled into fists.

He went and stood beside Dean, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” he said softly. Dean shook his head at the window.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said.

“Why? Because my family is so easy?”

Dean turned to look at him. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just having a hard time wrapping my head around all this. I mean, Sam... And Jo, Jesus. I’m...”

“Wouldn't you rather Sam told you things than hid them from you?” He asked gently. His hand fell from Dean’s shoulder to take his fingers. They unclenched under his touch.

“Of course I would.”

“Then act like it,” he said.

There was a quiet knock on the door. It was Jo.

“There’s only two beds in here,” she said. “So Charlie and I will take the living room. You guys take the room.”

“It’s okay,” said Dean. He looked at Castiel. “Is it okay?”

“Yeah, we’ll take the living room.”

“Thanks,” said Jo.

Dean stopped as he passed by her on his way out.

“Hey,” he said. “I...”

She smiled up at him. “I know.”

“Let’s take a walk,” said Castiel as they walked down the stairs.

“It’s snowing,” said Dean.

“So?”

So, they took a walk.

The snow glowed softly under the street lights. Everything about the night felt like Christmas; the snow, the dim, warm lights. The family disaster.

"I guess I just really wanted this big family holiday,” Dean said to him. Little snowflakes fell into his hair and melted. “Maybe it was stupid of me to think it was that easy.”

“Do you think you're responsible for them?” Asked Castiel. “Do you think it's your job to protect them? Because it's not.” He took Dean’s hand. It was freezing. He rubbed Dean's fingers between his palms.

“But it is,” said Dean, looking at their hands. “Sam's my responsibility. Charlie got into hunting because of me. Bobby's taken care of us, and now it's my job to look after him.”

“Bobby's a grown man,” Castiel replied. “He can look after himself. Sam’s growing up, and he has to be the one in control of his life. Charlie’s her own person. You don't have to carry everyone on your shoulders.” He paused. “Is that how you feel about me? That you have to carry me?”

Dean shook his head. “No, man. If anything, it's the other way around.” He smiled and pulled Castiel closer. “You're my anchor,” he said into Castiel’s shoulder.

The snow turned into a drizzle.

“We should go back,” Dean said, breaking away from their hug, and they headed back. Dean didn’t let go of his hand.

“Hey,” he said before they walked back in. “Thanks.”

Castiel squeezed his hand. “Go easy on them.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And don’t give yourself a hard time, Dean. You’re not responsible for everyone else’s happiness. Just for your own.”

“Now you’re just talking crazy,” Dean said, and smiled, and kissed him.

Sam took the smaller couch in the living room. When they took the pillows out of the other couch, it was almost big enough for the both of them.

He spent the night with Dean squeezed up against him so that he wouldn't fall off onto the floor.

Dean was still asleep when he woke up on Christmas morning.

The room was dark – the kind of dark that came with clouded sky and the sound of rain falling on the roof. He untangled himself from the web of blanket and Dean and padded across the room.

In the kitchen he found Jo, leaning against the counter with a mug in her hands.

“Hey,” she said when he entered. “Are they still asleep?”

“Yeah.”

She lifted her mug slightly. “Coffee?”

“Sure.”

She handed him a mug and the coffee pot. “There’s milk in the fridge.”

He leaned on the counter beside her.

“Is everyone here a hunter?” He asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Why?”

“Just so I know how nervous I should be of you guys disliking me.”

“No one dislikes you,” she said.

He didn’t expect that, coming from her. He almost asked: _are you sure?_

But then she patted his shoulder and gave him a small smile.

The rest of the day had a typical holiday feeling. Sweaters and socks, watching the tree, opening presents. Around lunchtime, he spotted Dean pull Bobby and Sam aside for an apology. Then Dean plopped back on the couch and rested his feet in Castiel's lap.

All in all – a much calmer holiday than an average Christmas with his siblings.

When they left, Charlie and Sam gave him a tight hug. Bobby patted his back and said “See you, kid.”

He saw Dean pull Jo into a hug and quietly say, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said with her chin on his shoulder. She broke it off and smiled at him. “I’ll live.”

“I know.” He smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “You’re pretty tough.”


	20. Stuck in the Middle With You

In the middle of winter, Wayward Sisters looked like a ghost town. The trees were bare. Fog settled around the buildings, swallowing everything in sight. Castiel spent most of his days in his room, studying.

A couple of weeks past Christmas break, he was sitting at the desk, studying, while his friends were settling on Garth’s bed and calling him over.

“I just started studying fifteen minutes ago,” he protested when Hannah tugged on his hand.

“That’s the perfect time to take a break,” said Meg.

“Yeah. Come on.” Hannah pulled him from the desk to sit on the floor beside her. “And stop checking your phone every five seconds.”

“But...” Dean had said he’d call, and he hadn’t heard from him since last night.

“Waiting for your girlfriend to call?” Garth lifted his eyebrows.

So, he didn’t exactly sort things out right after Christmas. But it was so easy to just shut up and let them make up their own story. And it was so, so hard to speak.

“Are we back on that?” Asked Hannah.

“Yeah, are we?” He echoed her wearily.

“We so are,” said Meg, and the edges of her mouth rose when their eyes locked.

“I bet she’s a boring book nerd,” said Hannah, looking at him. “She’s boring, isn’t she?”

“I bet she’s scary, like Meg,” said Kevin.

Meg snorted. “Yeah, he wishes.”

“Just tell us her name,” said Garth.

“You know what?” He said, and they all turned to look at him intently. Then he said, “No.”

“If you don’t, they’re going to keep guessing,” said Meg.

“I bet her name is Precious,” said Garth, and Meg pointed at him, to stress her point. “Or Darling, or Kitty, and she bakes cookies every Friday and has a goldfish called Mr. Fizzles.”

“Ha,” said Meg. “If you had a goldfish you'd accidentally kill it within three days.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he protested.

“Not him,” said Kevin. “His girlfriend.”

Meg looked at him with regret in her eyes, realizing she’d disclosed a piece of information the rest of them had no idea about. “...Right.”

“Can we not talk about this?” He asked.

“Hold on,” said Garth. “You live with that person?”

“So far for not talking about it.”

His phone buzzed.

“I’m going to take this,” he said. They all said something in response, but rather than listen, he stood up and answered the phone.

“Sorry,” was Dean’s first word. “Sorry sorry. I got caught up in this case.”

He started putting on his shoes, to go outside and have some privacy. But when he glanced out the window, it was rainy, and foggy, and it was probably freezing outside. So, instead, he sat down on his bed and tried to ignore the gathering around Garth’s bed.

“Are you still working on that?” He asked.

“I told you it’s a big deal,” said Dean.

“Yeah, but it’s been months.”

“And it’s gonna be some more months.”

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he said softly, playing with an edge of his blanket.

“I could say the same to you,” said Dean on the other side. “Speaking of- I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this.”

His fingers clenched around the blanket. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he didn't want to have this argument again.

“I was thinking I can pick you up this Friday instead of you taking the bus?”

“It’s a long drive just to pick someone up,” he said.

“Well...”

On Garth’s side of the room, his friends were looking at him. He tried to ignore them.

“You know, it’s okay,” Dean started saying, but he cut him off.

“If you come over after Physics," he said, fast enough that he didn't have time to regret it, "We’ll have enough time to have dinner.”

“Really?” Said Dean. Castiel could hear he was relieved.

“Yeah. I miss you. And this whole thing has been stupid.”

“I miss your ass so much,” said Dean, and there was a smile in his voice. “I mean, not your _ass_. Also your ass. I’m...”

“Dean.”

“Yeah.”

“Stop talking about my bottom.”

“Yeah.”

“And I was thinking on Saturday we can go to the beach,” he said.

“On January?" Dean asked. "Just like that?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Just like that... Or because it’s your birthday.”

“Oh! Right.”

His eyebrows furrowed at the wall. “When was the last time you looked at a calendar?”

“I don’t even know, man.”

“Take a break,” he said.

“I’m actually on my way to the supermarket,” said Dean. “So, ha. I'm on my break. Anything you didn’t put on the list?”

He didn't think a run to the supermarket counted as a break. He didn't say that, though. “We’re almost out of ketchup."

“No we’re not.”

“We are, since you made ‘ketchup and fries soup’.”

“Oh, right.” Dean huffed with what sounded suspiciously like reminiscence. “Yeah, that was gross. Anything else?”

“Toothpaste.”

Dean sighed. “What would I do without you?”

“Have someone else remind you five times?”

“You ruined it,” said Dean. “’Kay. See you.” They hung up.

He turned back to the group to see everyone looking at him.

“You guys have no concept of privacy,” he said.

They kept staring.

“...What?”

“Was that your... girlfriend?” Asked Garth reluctantly.

Really?

“Sure,” he said, maybe a tad too forcefully, and grabbed his textbook. They were going to see Dean on Friday, either way.

“But... Dean is a guy’s name,” said Kevin.

“Yes,” he said. He opened the textbook.

“And you were talking about groceries,” said Hannah. “And a beach trip.”

“Maybe you should eavesdrop less.”

“Is your girlfriend a... guy?”

Three pairs of eyes stared at him. Beside them, Meg was texting on her phone, like their conversation was too boring to bother to pay attention to.

“No,” he said. “My girlfriend is a two-headed horse named Dean.”

None of them looked amused. He must be doing the joke thing wrong.

“I’m going to go back to my book,” he said slowly, and grabbed a pencil from the desk.

“No way,” said Garth, and the group collectively shimmied to his side of the floor.

“Is it serious?” Asked Hannah. He shrugged.

“Pretty serious.”

“So, like... Who’s the girl?” She asked.

He tilted his head to one side. “We’re both guys.”

“Yeah, but like, who’s the _girl_?”

“I don’t understand,” he answered. “If there was a girl, our relationship would be very different.”

Garth waved a hand at her dismissively. “What’s he like?” He asked.

“Like a regular teenager.” He looked at their stumped faces for a moment. “He’s not really a two-headed horse,” he clarified.

“So, like, really into sports, listens to annoying pop music, over-uses hair gel...”

“Not any of those things,” he said.

“Actually, he could ease off the hair gel sometimes,” said Meg.

“Doesn’t sound like any teenager _I_ know,” said Kevin.

“Hold on.” Garth turned to look at Meg. “You know him?”

She shrugged. “We went to high school together.”

“So what is he like?” And they all looked at her now.

“He’s a dork,” she said. And that pretty much sealed the deal.

Every day, on his way to his dorm room, he passed by the ad he’d seen on his first day here: _Need the cash but don’t know what to do? We’re here for you!_ _Career counselling for students. Make a call today! _With the phone number at the bottom.

Admittedly, there was something questionable about it. And maybe it was this new shift that was in the works this week – from the burden of lying and sneaking around to a kind of exposure he had no control over – that made him just a little bit more open to the idea of inviting disaster into his life.

He wrote down the phone number and called it.

Maybe it wasn’t going to be a disaster at all. The only job he’d ever had was in Crowley’s eerie escape room, and he didn’t know how Dean was managing it alone, now that he was in college. Just being in that building made you feel like a demon was about to jump at you from the ceiling.

“Hello?” Answered a man on the other side of the line.

“Hello,” he replied.

“Yes?”

“I’m calling about the... job counselling ad?”

“Of course. Would you like an appointment?”

There was something odd about that man. He sounded old. Actually, he sounded very young. But there was something old fashioned about the way he spoke.

“I... think so.”

“Very good. Will tomorrow at one p.m. work?”

“So fast?” He asked.

“Would you like to schedule for a later date? We also have something in four months available...”

“Tomorrow is good,” he said, and he didn't know why he was saying it with furrowed eyebrows.

The next day, he showed up at the address the man gave him. It was in a secluded building on the other side of campus. When he knocked on the door, a young man in a suit opened it and shook his hand.

“Take a seat,” he said and led Castiel inside. “My name is Henry Winchester.”

“Winchester?” Weird.

“If you could write down your details in here?” He asked and slid a page across the table. Castiel took a pen and filled in his details. Meanwhile, Henry took a notepad and wrote something down.

“So why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Because I need a job?” He offered. The other man let out a _mm-hm _and kept writing.

“And?”

“And?” 

“How interested are you in having a job you’d have a sense of moral obligation to?” Henry asked.

“Could you... give me a for-instance?” He asked.

“No.”

“Well, I’m very committed, if that’s what you’re looking for,” he said.

“Would your acquaintances describe you as a book person?” Asked Henry.

“Sure,” he lied.

“Alright,” the man wrote a few things down in his notepad. “Lastly, how willing are you to die on the job?”

He looked around the room nervously. The walls were bare. The desk was made out of heavy wood. “Not thrilled,” he answered.

“But not entirely opposed?” Asked Henry.

“I think I’m going to go now,” he said reluctantly and stood up.

“No, please.” Henry gestured for him to sit back down. “We’re almost done. I’d like you to take this test.” He fumbled through a stack of papers and handed Castiel a few pages stapled together.

“I’ve seen your grade record, and I’ve got to say, it was pretty impressive. I think we might find you a good fit.” Then he left the room.

The test took less than a half hour. When Henry came back, he barely glanced at it and said,

“I think we’ve found the perfect match for you, mister.” He stuck a business card in Castiel’s face. “How would you feel about working at the library?”

“Good?” Castiel said slowly.

“Outstanding. You start next Monday. I will be in charge of you.”

When he left the counselor's office, he almost felt like he should take a shower. When Dean called, it took him a moment to recall why he was calling.

“I’m there in fifteen minutes,” Dean said when he picked up.

“I’ll wait for you in the parking lot,” he said.

“Thanks. Hey, are we still locked on going out for dinner?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, and all the things he had to do started flying around in his head.

Dean sensed his tone. “What?”

“I have some studying to do. But it’s fine.” Dean’s birthday was in two days. And he did promise. He could take a break for one evening, even if it meant he would miss a deadline or two...

“We can cancel,” said Dean, his voice soft and wary all at once.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” And the fact that Dean was as considerate as to suggest driving back the way he’d come just to let him study only made him more sure. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

Twenty minutes later, he watched Dean park the car in front of him and step out carrying a white plastic bag.

“Hey,” he said and gave Castiel a hug.

“What’s this?” Castiel asked at the bag. Dean’s easy smile shifted into something mischievous.

“Takeaway.”

“What? I thought we were going out.”

“We are going out of the parking lot and into your room,” said Dean. “And I’m gonna help you study. Or watch you study. Or play Candy Crush while you study.”

Castiel looked at him, speechless. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” said Dean and took his hand. “Come on. My ass is freezing.”

But he didn’t feel the cold. His insides were sparked warm with Dean’s unselfishness and his humanity towards something he didn’t understand.

Walking to Castiel's room, Dean looked around at everything with awe. Maybe he was wishing he were able to see these halls around him every day. Castiel didn’t ask.

“I got a job at the library,” he said as they walked.

“Great.”

“Yeah. My boss’s name is Henry Winchester.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. “Weird,” he said. “My grandfather’s name was Henry.”

“Weird,” Castiel echoed. “This is us.” And he opened the door to his room.

Inside, four pairs of eyes turned to look at them. Dean stared back at them.

“So... This is my room,” Castiel broke the silence. “There’s my roommate, Garth, and these are Kevin and Hannah. And Meg. You know Meg.” He gestured at Dean. “This is Dean.”

“Eh... Hi,” said Dean. Meg nodded at him.

“Nice to meet you.” Garth hopped up from the chair and reached out his hand. Dean stared at it. Hannah looked around his one side, then the other.

“He looks normal,” she commented.

“Way to act normal, guys,” said Kevin. “Don’t mind them,” he said to Dean.

Hannah rose to her toes and took a good look at his hair. “Definitely too much hair gel.”

Dean looked at her, offended, and took a step back.

“Are you a book nerd?” She asked.

“Are you scary?” Asked Garth.

“Better yet, do you bake cookies and have a goldfish called Mr. Fizzles?” Said Meg dryly.

“Okay, answer hers,” said Garth.

“Who’s the girl?” Asked Hannah.

“There’s no girl,” said Dean.

“There has to be a _girl,_” She said. “You know? Otherwise, how does the sex work?”

“I’m not gonna answer that,” said Dean.

“Alright,” said Castiel. “No more questions.” He grabbed Dean’s arm and showed him to the desk, closer to Meg than to anyone else. A safe space. Or, for the least, safer.

“What’s going on?” Dean whispered to Meg, staring at the others. 

“They really thought you were a two-headed horse,” Meg whispered back. Dean’s forehead creased, puzzled.

By Garth’s bed, the group exchanged whispers. He could hear the words _dork _and _keeper_. Or maybe it was _kiss her. _His hearing was only so-so. Then Garth nudged Kevin firmly towards them, and Kevin approached, asking,

“So, eh... Who’s stronger?”

“What kind of question is that?” Asked Castiel, and added, “Naturally, me.” Only it was at the same time that Dean said,

“I am, obviously.”

They looked at each other.

“Well, of course you wouldn’t admit out loud it’s me,” said Castiel. “Not in front of people.”

“Oh, you wanna go, big boy? Let's go.”

“I'm not going to hit you,” he said.

“Why not?” Asked Dean. “Scared you'll break your hand?”

“No,” he said. “I'm scared I’ll break your jaw.”

“I can kick your ass with one arm tied to my back.”

“Guys,” Kevin put his palms in the air. “Chill.”

"Don't worry," said Meg in her apathetic tone. "This is how they always act."

“You can arm wrestle,” Garth suggested.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Castiel, but Dean was already sitting down and placing his elbow on the desk. “Are you serious?” He asked.

“For science,” said Dean. “Unless you don’t want me to embarrass you in front of all your friends...” He shrugged.

Castiel placed his elbow by Dean’s on the table and gripped his hand.

Dean counted down, and the wrestling commenced.

On the first minute it was exciting. One moment he had the lead, and the other Dean. On the second minute, it started getting old. On the fourth minute Kevin said to Meg, without looking away from the spectacle,

“Wow, they’re both really strong.”

“Or equally weak,” said Meg.

On the fifth minute, Dean gave up.

“I quit,” he said, and let Castiel push the back of his hand to the table.“Let’s go do something that’s actually useful.”

Castiel straightened up and stretched his arm. “So, I think that settles it,” he said in the most casual tone he could pull off.

“I let you win!” Dean protested.

“Because you’re weak,” he said.

“Because I...” Dean sighed. “You’re an ass.”

“A winner ass,” Meg pointed out, and everyone sided with her. Dean argued, in a playful kind of way, and Garth nudged his arm fondly.

Castiel tried to frame this moment in his mind. His friends around Dean, looking at him and talking to him with curiosity and charm. There wasn't anyone Dean didn't manage to charm. 

For a moment, it felt like all the pieces in his life were falling into place.


	21. Rock and a Hard Place

It might have been a bad idea, but there was no turning back now.

They were already at the beach, and it was cold and windy, but Dean wasn’t complaining. To be honest, he seemed happy. He was smiling nervously, looking at the few strangers who passed by them and tapping his fingers on his thighs as they walked.

“I can’t believe there are other people here,” he said.

“I think they’re thinking the same thing,” said Castiel. He shoved one hand into his pocket, the other holding Dean’s, stiff from the cold.

“This isn't so bad,” said Dean, watching the sky. Seeing Castiel’s expression, he added, “I meant the weather. _This _is great,” he smiled.

They watched the sea as they walked. Dean let out a sigh.

“Can’t believe I’m twenty,” he said. “I’m officially not a teenager anymore. What even is life?” He looked at Castiel, as if actually expecting an answer.

“I don’t... know?” He offered.

Dean was quiet for a few moments. His eyes skipped across the landscape restlessly.

“Hey,” he said finally.

“Yeah?”

Dean looked at him, his jaw tight. “Do you ever...” His voice faded, and he looked away. “Remember I told you about my dad's storage unit?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, so I found these coordinates in my dad’s journal the other day, and turns out they lead to an old storage unit he used to have. I always wondered where it was. Sam and I are going to check it out sometime. You wanna come?”

“Sure,” said Castiel. “What do you think is in it?”

“I dunno. I don’t know if it was actually dad’s, or someone else’s, or if it’s related to a case that’s way in the past now. We’re gonna find out.”

“Sounds like a mystery,” said Castiel.

“Ha. That’s not as bleak as the phrasing I had in mind.”

“Maybe we should be talking about happier things,” he said. At that, Dean’s lips pursed, and he looked away again. The ocean waves swayed back and forth.

“Like what?” Dean asked flatly.

“I don’t know. Dogs?” Dean liked dogs. And he looked upset, or tense, for the least, and it made Castiel nervous. 

“Mhm.”

“You okay?” He asked.

“Yeah. So, um. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Where... where are we?” Dean asked.

He looked around them. “I don't really remember what this place is called.”

“No, I mean...” Dean cleared his throat, his eyes on the sand. “With us.”

“Oh. Well, I’m in Wayward Sisters, and you’re back home. I know geography can be confusing...”

Dean shook his head. “Forget it.”

He tugged on Dean’s hand. “Let’s sit.”

They sat down in the sand, leaning against a rock. The stronger of the tides almost swallowed the tips of their toes, and he sent a hand and let the sea wash over his fingers.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking,” Dean started, weighing his words, “That I like you.”

“That’s a dodgy answer.”

“It is,” said Dean. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that this was the stupidest birthday idea,” he said.

Dean smiled and looked at their hands. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He said it quietly.

Another few moments passed in silence. Then, Dean said:

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Do you ever think about the future?” He asked.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“What about the future?” He asked Dean, nudging his shoulder when he didn’t answer.

“I dunno,” said Dean. “Moving to a house with an actual bedroom. Maybe getting a dog. Growing...” He paused. “Growing old together.” It was almost a question. Dean was saying: _I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you._

“That would be nice.” He was saying: _me too._

“Yeah.”

Dean watched the waves rise and fade, and Castiel watched his face. He couldn’t figure out whether Dean was very contented or whether he was making a very focused effort to contain his feelings.

He asked, “Was there something you wanted to say?”

Dean looked at him, and smiled his genuine, quiet smile, and said, “Just that I’m lucky to have you.”

The next morning, Dean and him were sitting across from each other at the dining table, drinking coffee, when Dean pointed at an article on the paper he was reading and turned it for Castiel to read.

“Check this out.”

He read the headline: _Three more go missing in south Oregon town. The manhunt continues – but for what?_

“Oof,” he said.

“It’s getting worse,” said Dean. “This is the second strike this month. Last time it was four people.”

“Then it might just be getting better,” he said. “Last time it was four, now three...” His words died under Dean’s glare.

“So, what, we’re supposed to count down to zero?”

He shrugged. “Maybe?”

“Nah, man. We’re gonna find out what it is. Bobby’s working on it day and night.”

He wiped a crumb from the table. “No luck so far?”

“We’re getting closer,” was all Dean said. That was what he always said. _We’re getting closer. _Castiel knew it meant he was stuck.

“I wish I could help.”

“Don’t even worry about it.” He paused before saying, “It’ll all be over soon.”

“Yeah, it will.” He nudged Dean’s foot with his own under the table, and Dean’s mindless frown shifted into a smile in spite of himself. He nudged back, and Castiel nudged harder. And now Dean was using his feet as claws to grab his leg and laughing like he couldn’t help it. And then he retracted his legs and crossed them on his chair. He looked at Castiel with an odd warmth in his eyes and then looked at the table. And then he said:

“Hey, you wanna get married?”

Castiel let out a soft snort. “Sure.”

Dean’s eyes shot to his face. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” He watched the shock unfold on Dean’s face. “Oh, no. Were you kidding?”

“No,” said Dean. “I just... Oh my God, did I just make the lamest proposal in history?”

“There’s been worse,” he smiled.

“I don’t have rings or anything,” said Dean.

“Okay, no, this one’s the worst.”

Dean was looking at him like he was the sun.

“Hold on,” he said. “Is this why you were being so weird yesterday?”

“Maybe,” Dean said unwillingly.

“Awww.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Shut up, Cas.”

“How can I help you?” A lady in a pantsuit smiled at them from behind the counter.

“Rings,” said Castiel, eyeing Dean, who was staring at the hundreds of rings in front of them. “We need them.”

“Engagement rings?”

“No,” he said. “The other kind. The married... marriage kind.”

“Great,” she put her hands together. “Let’s go through it step by step. Who are they for?”

“Us.” He kicked Dean into paying attention.

“You two are engaged?” Asked the lady. They let out a nervous laughter. Then Dean looked at him and said,

“...Yeah.”

Engaged. It was hard to imagine that word had anything to do with him.

“Congratulations,” said the lady, but he barely heard her. “What kind of rings are you looking for?”

Engaged.

He was engaged.

Dean tugged on his hand, and he snapped out of it.

“What kind of rings are we looking for?” Dean asked him.

“Nice ones,” he said. The lady showed them to a display of some manly rings.

“Depending on your price range, these are five to eight hundred each.”

Dean gave him a nervous look.

“Our price range is limited,” he said. The lady paused, as if having to recalculate her course of action.

“Why don’t you take a look at these,” she pointed at another display. “These are some of our graceful, simpler designs.”

She watched them expectantly as they took a look. Dean leaned sideways towards him and whispered,

“Do they all look the same to you?”

They did. They all looked the same.

“Uh... How about this one?” Asked Castiel, and pointed at a plain gold one that looked just like all the rest.

“This one’s good,” said Dean. “Can we see it?”

The lady took out the ring and handed it to Castiel. “And for you?” She asked Dean.

He tried the ring on. It was a little tight. He tried to imagine himself wearing it for the next twenty years. It was a little scary.

“Does it fit?” Asked Dean.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “Actually, it’s a little too small. But otherwise...” He gave it back to the lady.

“And for you?” She asked Dean again.

“Uh... I think we should have matching ones.” Dean looked at him. “Right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Matching ones.”

Dean nudged his side and smiled a little. “Because we match.”

Castiel looked at him blankly, and his smile dropped.

“You’re gonna break up with me, aren’t you?”

The lady laughed in the kind of sociable way retail workers did when they were trying to telepathically signal you to go away.

“Let me check if we have a size that would fit you,” she said. “And if not, we’ll get them readjusted.”

She disappeared for a few minutes and came back with two rings for them to try. He put his on, watching Dean try his own.

“How are they?” Asked the lady.

Dean looked at his hand with furrowed brows and nodded, clearing his throat.

“Let me get them ready for you,” she said.

They left the store with a tiny little box.

“What do we do with these?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked around them, at the lines of stores and trees and people passing by. At Dean’s nervous hands and his old shoes.

“Give me your shoelace,” he said and knelt down.

“What?”

“Give it,” he said, undoing one of his. He took Dean’s shoelace and his own and slid a ring onto each of them, tying them at the ends.

“Here,” he said, handing Dean his shoelace. He wore Dean’s around his neck like a pendant. Dean watched him, and did the same.

“I like it,” he said, touching the ring that rested on his chest now. He looked up at Castiel. “Are we crazy to be doing this?”

“No,” he said. “No. There’s always divorce.”

Dean snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

“So... What now?”

“I don’t know,” said Dean. “Dinner?”

A couple of weeks passed, and Castiel was getting used to the feeling of the ring against his chest, beneath his shirt. The weeks were a blur of waiting for the weekends. Dean would come over once a week and hang in his dorm room while he studied. Sometimes he got so bored that he started counting ants. But he always came anyway.

At home, on a Sunday night three weeks later, Dean closed his laptop and shoved it onto his nightstand.

“Sam called again today,” he said. Castiel looked up from his phone. “He asked me what I want as a wedding present.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Dean wiggled his legs under the blanket. “They are out of control. Charlie called me five times last week trying to fish for more info.”

“At least they’re being supportive,” he said.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “So what did your family say?”

Oh. “Eh...” Oh. “They took it pretty well.”

Dean studied his expression with narrowed eyes, and he turned to look the other direction innocently.

“You didn’t tell them, did you?”

“It’s just...” He sighed. “They don’t really like you.”

“Well- what do you think they'd say when you see them next time and you're wearing a wedding ring?”

He shrugged his shoulders defensively. “It's not like we're getting married tomorrow.”

“What if I wanna get married tomorrow?”

“I can’t,” he said. “I have physics.”

“Alright,” said Dean, and put his hands up, palms down, as if he was saying _bear with me_. “Alright. Let’s take it step by step. We can have dinner, I’ll work my charm on them, they’ll love me, and once they’re convinced we’re an amazing couple, we’ll tell them.”

Castiel grimaced. “I don’t think it’ll be that easy.”

“You have a better idea?” asked Dean.

“Move to Canada and never tell them.”

“Really?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Move to Cuba and never tell them.”

Dean let out a sigh.

He leaned his head on Dean’s shoulder. “Tell me it’s not going to be as bad as I think.”

Dean’s shirt smelled somewhat like fresh laundry and a lot like him. There wasn’t a smell in the world he liked better.

“No, it’s gonna be bad,” Dean said. “It’s gonna be so bad. But we’ll get through it.”

He shut off the light.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean said in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Just ‘casue you’re upset, you can be the little spoon today.”

He smiled, though Dean couldn’t see it. “Thanks, Dean.”

There was no holiday coming up. No birthday, no special occasion. Nothing. So when he called his father and asked him to have a family dinner, Chuck asked,

“What do you mean by ‘family’?”

“It’s just, it’s been a while since we’ve all had dinner together,” he said. Sitting on his dorm bed, Dean gave him a silent thumbs-up. “You know?”

“I guess,” said Chuck.

“Good.” And in the most casual tone he could muster: “I’ll bring Dean.”

And Chuck must have sensed something was off about that, he must have – because he said, “Great. I’ll call everyone else,” which was a pretty generous offer, considering Castiel had been the one to suggest a family dinner in the first place.

A couple of weeks more and they were standing in front of Chuck’s door, holding a bottle of apple juice.

“Are you sure this is...” Dean looked at the juice. “Normal?”

“We can’t bring wine,” Castiel answered. “He’s sober.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Dean looked at him. “This is the part when you knock on the door.”

“Mhm.”

Dean took his hand and squeezed it. Then he rang the doorbell.

Gabriel opened the door.

“Hey, bro,” he said. “Hey, Dean.”

“Hey, man,” said Dean. “We brought apple juice.”

“Where’s dad?” Castiel asked.

“In the kitchen.”

“I’ll take that,” he said, taking the bottle of juice and making his way to the kitchen.

Chuck was standing over the stove, wearing a gray button-up and looking tired.

“Hey,” he said when he saw Castiel.

“Hey. We brought apple juice.”

“Thanks.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“So what’s up?” Asked Chuck.

“Nothing,” he blurted out. “No... Nothing. What about you?”

“Same old.” He paused before saying, “It’s going to be two years this summer.”

“I know.” His father became sober five days before Dean and him got together. It wasn’t hard to remember the date.

Slowly, everyone arrived.

“I think I’m the only person less popular here than you,” Dean whispered to him while they were sitting down for dinner.

“They’re not crazy about Luci, either,” he whispered back. Still, he couldn’t deny they were getting some ugly looks from Michael and Naomi’s side of the table.

“So what’s the occasion?” Asked Balthazar when they were all sitting down.

Chuck glanced in his direction before speaking. “No occasion,” he said. “I just thought it would be nice to...” And his words faltered, because this was so clearly way too uncomfortable to be any kind of nice. “All have dinner together.”

“Right,” said Naomi, and looked right at Dean with a piercing hostility. Beneath the table, Dean’s knee pressed against his nervously.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “So how’s college going for ya, Cassie?”

“Good,” he answered shortly.

They ate in silence for a while. Then:

“So, Dean.” Chuck swayed the apple juice in his glass like he wished it were something else. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m working a couple jobs simultaneously now, actually,” Dean answered. His tone was slightly higher with the discomfort of being on the spot. “Nothing special.”

“What do your parents do?” Asked Chuck.

Dean pressed his lips together trying to come up with an alternative for _monster killing hunters. _“They worked in law enforcement,” he said finally. “Before they died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t...”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” said Dean.

“So you live on your own?” Asked Balthazar.

“Uh...” Dean glanced at Castiel.

“We live together,” he helped.

Naomi’s lips twisted.

“Actually, most of the time it feels like living alone.” Dean’s tone was humorous, but no one was smiling. “You know, since Cas is in college now.” His knee was pushing harder and harder against Castiel’s in distress.

For a while, no one said a word. Castiel thought it over.

“You know, Dean’s a good guy,” he said. Dean kicked him under the table, but he continued. “He works as a teacher’s assistant at my old high school. That’s actually how we met.”

“So he went out with a student while he was an employee,” said Michael.

Alright. His bad.

“We’re less than a year apart, though,” said Dean. “It’s not really... as bad as it sounds.”

“And it worked out fine,” said Castiel. “Since he ended up becoming a student.”

His siblings looked at him with confusion. Chuck moved his mashed potatoes around his plate.

“I dropped out,” Dean explained unwillingly. “But then I got my diploma just one year later. Really, it worked out.”

Naomi adjusted in her seat. “How did they hire you without a diploma?” It was more a criticism than a question. Still, her scowl didn’t move from Dean’s face until he answered.

“I wasn’t entirely honest on the application,” he mumbled.

“He works very hard,” said Castiel. “To pay his brother’s tuition and to have an apartment of his own.”

“So you’re not in college,” said Michael.

Wow. He did not see that one backfire.

“Nope,” said Dean.

“What are you going to do in life without a degree?”

“A lot of people make it just fine without a college degree,” said Dean, but it came out much weaker than he’d probably intended.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Michael muttered under his breath.

Dean looked down at his plate. Somehow, he managed to keep his expression diplomatically blank.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Asked Castiel. There was an edge to his voice, and Dean’s hand moved to touch his elbow in warning.

“Are you kidding?” Said Michael. “This guy, he’s...” And he counted on his fingers for demonstration. “He’s got no money, he’s not going to college, he dropped out of school and then _lied _about it, and except, it’s..." He gestured at the two of them. “It’s disgusting.”

Dean pushed his chair back. “I’m going to spend some time in the kitchen,” he said quietly. “Excuse me.”

Castiel walked out after him.

When he entered the kitchen, Dean was leaning his palms on the counter, his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry about that,” Castiel said and touched his back. “They’re just assholes.”

Dean opened his eyes and looked at him. He took a breath before he spoke. “I’m sorry. I...”

“I know.”

Dean turned around to face him. “I know it shouldn’t get to me, but.” He clenched his jaw and brought his fingertips to his temples. “They’re taking all my insecurities and flaws I’m most ashamed of and they’re pointing them out to prove that I’m a bad person. That I’m not good enough for you.”

“I know.”

“While I spend every day, you know, trying to fight my brain telling me the exact same things.”

He sighed. “Alright. Let’s just go out there and tell them and then leave,” he said. “Okay?”

“Really?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. And then we’ll find a good pizza place and I’ll make it up to you for making you go through this whole thing.”

Dean smiled. “You don’t need to make up for nothing.”

“I think I do.” He gestured back at the dining room. “They’re pretty horrible.”

“You really don’t,” said Dean.

“Maybe just a little bit.”

“Okay, maybe just a little bit.”

When they went back into the dining room, Michael stood up. “Brother,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“We do,” said Castiel.

“We’ve discussed this.” Michael gestured around the table. Gabriel was shaking his head. Chuck stared at his glass. “And we’ve decided your relationship with this... person,” said Michael, “Can’t go on.”

He exchanged looks with Dean.

“Um,” he said. “We’re engaged.”

And if everyone was uneasy before, they were now ten times as uncomfortable.

“Mazel Tov,” said Chuck hesitantly.

“Oh, it’s awkward,” said Gabriel. “Jesus on a candy bar, it’s awkward.”

“So... I guess I’ll see you around,” said Castiel. “Come on,” he said to Dean.

“Thanks for dinner, Mr. Shurley,” said Dean, and they left.

“So should we expect a check from them,” said Dean once they were outside, “Or are we registering for gifts...?”

He smiled. “Hey. Thanks for doing this.”

“Of course,” said Dean and took his hand as they walked to the car. “What are fiancés for?”

“Probably not this,” he said.

“Totally this,” said Dean. “And peeing with the door open.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“I think I get that privilege after tonight.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll allow one night of peeing with the door open.”

“I’ll take full advantage of it,” Dean smiled.

“Ew.”

“Yep. Get used to it.”


	22. Point of No Return

When Meg came into his dorm room, she took one look at the scene on Castiel’s bed and let out a snort.

“You’ve got a Dean on your shirt,” she said. “Need help cleaning that up?”

“We’ve had a long week,” he explained.

He was sitting on his bed, his back to the wall, with a book in his one hand. His other hand was wrapped around Dean, who was unconscious and alarmingly close to snoring on his shoulder.

It wasn’t an excuse. Dean had been so invested in hunting, he’d stopped doing anything else. He dropped his job at Crowley’s, and he’s missed several work days at SPN High. This case didn’t give him a rest; people kept disappearing, sometimes at a rate of two or three a week. The only reason he was even here was that he hadn’t visited Castiel in a week and a half, and as it turned out, their time together was cut short by one of them falling asleep with his mouth open.

Maybe there was an advantage to it. They’d both been stressed out lately. They’d both been busy. They both forgot to call. He was swamped with studying and working at the library, and Dean had his case. And even though it wasn’t their first go at a rough patch – or maybe just because of that – it was a little unsettling.

Dean let out a single snore on his shoulder, and then his head slipped slowly until it was in Castiel’s lap.

“French fries,” he murmured out of sleep.

Meg slumped down in the chair and put her feet up on the edge of Castiel’s bed.

“’Sup, nerds,” she said to Garth and Hannah without looking at them. Her eyes were on her phone.

Hannah’s eyes tracked the movement of Castiel's fingers smoothing through Dean’s hair. It made him uncomfortable. He stopped and rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

To his left, Meg let out a huff.

“Man, you text so weird,” she said at her phone. She didn’t need to explain for everyone awake in the room to turn and look at Castiel.

“She didn’t mean me,” he said defensively.

“Yes, I did,” said Meg.

Hannah leaned toward her, eager to participate. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“There is nothing inadequate about my texting,” he protested. “I use emojis.”

“You say that in your advantage?” Asked Hannah.

“Everyone else does!”

“No, you’re right,” said Meg, and turned her phone towards Hannah to show her a text. “Everyone puts a winking smiley after _would you like to get lunch together?_”

“Oh my God,” said Hannah.

“It’s not that weird,” he insisted weakly. In his lap, Dean sighed, and Castiel realized he might have been clutching his shoulder a little too tightly.

“January twenty ninth,” said Garth. “I said, ‘_hey, wanna hang out after American Lit?_’ You replied ‘_No_’ with a period twelve hours later.”

“I had to study,” he said.

“So you’re saying you didn’t mean to be rude?”

“Of course not.”

“See, that’s not the message you’re sending out, man,” said Garth.

“You should hire someone to be your social mediator,” said Hannah.

“I don’t need a social mediator,” he said. Something about that rang familiar, took him back to a conversation he’d had with Dean once.

He looked down at Dean, and shook his shoulder. “Hey. You should get back home.”

Dean let out a groan. “Shut up, mom.”

But he sat up with a grunt. His improvised ring necklace slid out of his shirt, and he tucked it back in, along with Sam’s amulet. “What’s going on?”

“We’re shaming you fiancé for his weird texting,” said Meg.

He looked at Dean for defense. Garth and Hannah exchanged looks. Dean snorted.

“You do text weird,” he said.

“No, I don’t.”

“Remember last week?” Asked Dean. “Two a.m., no context, you message me, _is there such thing as killer chickens?_”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Castiel objected.

“Hold on,” said Garth. “Did you just say fiancé?”

“Uh...” said Meg.

“Eee...” Said Dean.

“Eh...” said Castiel. “Yes.”

Hannah stared at him.

“Wow,” said Garth. “Don’t you think it’s a little too soon?”

He looked at Dean. “Maybe a little soon.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s ‘too’,” said Dean.

“Wow,” Garth said again.

“So, anyway,” said Dean and turned away from the group. “I promised I’d help you study.”

“It’s okay,” said Castiel. “You’re tired, and you just distract me more.”

“Hey, if you can’t focus on your schoolwork while being around someone so attractive...”

“I can’t focus on my schoolwork when you keep pointing at birds on the tree outside and giving me a detailed description of the kinds of worms they brought for their baby to eat in the nest.”

“But it’s so gross...” Dean protested faintly. “And their baby is so cute.”

He sighed and handed Dean a book. “Just let me figure out which pages I need.”

Dean opened the book and skimmed through it. Meg pushed her chair closer to the bed and tapped on his shoulder.

“So, engaged, huh?”

“Yup,” he said, glancing at Castiel.

“Regret it yet?”

“Not yet,” he grinned at the book. Castiel took it from his hands and scrolled to the correct page.

“See how he just snatches things right from my hand? Maybe I am starting to regret it.”

“If you can eat my fries while I’m in the bathroom, I can take books from your hands,” Castiel answered and waved his hand at Meg like he was batting a fly away. “Shoo.”

“But I’m bored,” she said in protest. She turned to Dean again. “You guys doing anything for Valentine’s Day?”

The temperature around them seemed to drop ten degrees.

“We’re too busy,” Dean mumbled. Meg turned to look at Castiel. He shrugged.

“Sore spot,” she said. “Got it.”

It was the truth. Neither of them had the time for taking a random Sunday night off, and it felt a little like neither wanted to take the extra step and make time, either.

“Go away,” he said to Meg, and put the book back in Dean’s hands. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” He asked when Meg was gone.

“I’m sure,” Dean sent him half a smile, and started reading.

Castiel rested his head back on the wall and looked outside the window, trying to focus on Dean’s words rather than his voice.

But a few moments later, Dean’s voice faded into silence. Castiel looked over at him. His head was tilted down slightly, eyes closed. His fingers still held the book open.

He took a moment to weigh out his options. Then he took the book carefully from Dean’s hands and touched his arm.

“Come on,” he said softly. “I’m buying you coffee, and then you’re going home.”

“Fine,” Dean mumbled, half asleep.

He almost had to drag Dean to the on-campus coffee shop. From there on, he was more awake.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” Castiel said at the car.

“Thursday?” Dean asked, his eyebrows pulling together. He put his coffee cup on the roof of the car and got his keys out.

“For your father’s storage locker?” He said. “We’d agreed I’ll take Friday off so we can go.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. I’ll pick you up,” said Dean and gave him a quick kiss.

“Did you forget?”

“I’m... sure I would have recalled,” Dean said while getting into the car, rolling the window down.

He bent over to see Dean through the window. “We’re picking Sam up, too.”

“Right,” said Dean.

“Don’t forget,” he said.

“I won’t, mom.”

There was a faint yell from the building behind them, and he straightened up to see Garth standing in the window of their dorm.

“Bye, Dean!” He yelled.

Dean stuck his head out the window of his car and waved.

“You’ve got the most embarrassing friends,” he said through his smile.

“I know. Get used to it.”

It was a long drive. Dean picked him up Thursday afternoon, and they drove to get Sam from his school.

Dean drove the first four hours. Then, he stopped for gas, and they switched.

“So, like,” said Sam while Dean was filling gas outside, and leaned forward between the front seats. Castiel turned to look at him from the passenger seat. “He lectures me about getting into a relationship too soon, and then he goes and gets engaged on his twentieth birthday?”

Castiel looked at him blankly.

“I mean, I think you're a great couple,” Sam blurted out. “It’s just...”

“You don’t have to explain,” said Castiel. “I agree.”

Sam’s eyebrows pulled together. “That you’re rushing into it?”

“No. That you’re not too young, is what I meant.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Sam leaned back.

Now it was awkward.

He opened his door and stepped out of the car.

“We good?” Dean asked when he got out.

“Yeah.” He went around and took the driver’s seat. Dean got the receipt and took the passenger seat, and they were on the move again.

“So where are you guys gonna go on your honeymoon?” Sam asked.

“We haven’t really thought about it,” he said, glancing at Dean.

“Ooh,” said Dean. “We can go to Italy. Or Spain.”

“Really?” Said Sam. “What’s your budget?”

Dean took his wallet out of his pocket and looked inside. “Uh... Fifty bucks.”

“Neat,” said Sam, glancing at Castiel through the rearview mirror. “Really seems like you’ve thought this through.”

Dean turned around. “Excuse me?”

“Nothin’,” said Sam and turned to look out the window.

The rest of the ride went by quietly. But finally, when they got to New York, they all seemed to forget about everything that’s been on their minds. They walked into the storage container with a sense of intrigue and wonder.

“Careful,” said Dean at the entrance, eyeing a shotgun that was pointed at the door. It was attached to a tripwire. They stepped above it and walked in.

Castiel looked around the dark cell. A devil’s trap was pained on the floor, and there were shelves upon shelves made of metal standing against the walls, packed with cursed boxes. Behind one shelf was a table of grenades, shotguns hanging on the wall above it.

“Man,” said Dean, looking around. “You spend all this time with the guy, and it’s like you barely even know the man.” He picked up a trophy from one of the shelves, wiping dust off it. Castiel felt the tingle of the dusty air filling his nose.

“Check this out,” said Dean.

“No way,” said Sam and stepped closer to have a look. “That's my Division Championship soccer trophy. I can't believe he kept this.”

Dean put the trophy down and wandered off to another shelf. He touched one of the cursed boxes, then looked at his dusty fingers and wiped them on his pants with a frown.

“Say, does spending the night at a dark, dusty storage unit count as a Valentine’s day date?” He said. “Because if it does, we’re good.”

Castiel looked at him. “Do you have a problem with us not doing anything?” He asked. “I thought we agreed this holiday is ridiculous.”

Sam put the grenade he was examining down. “Do you guys want me to leave...?”

“No,” said Dean. “I don’t have any problem.”

“Kind of sounds like you do,” said Castiel.

“Seriously, guys, I can go outside. I don’t wanna get in the middle of anything.”

“You’re not going anywhere, because this ain't the middle of nothing,” said Dean, and turned his back on both of them. “Hah.” He held up a shotgun. “Made this myself,” he said. “Sixth grade.”

“You... what?” Asked Castiel.

“We were a weird family.”

He shook his head and picked up a journal from one of the shelves. “What’s this?”

Dean put down the gun and took a look. He took the journal and flipped through it. “Oh my God,” he said and waved his brother over. “Sammy, come check this out.”

The three of them looked through the journal. There were addresses, phone numbers, entries about cases that went back as far as twenty years ago.

“There’s details about creatures I’ve never even heard of in here,” said Dean, bewildered. He turned it over to examine the cover, and something fell from it. Sam crouched down to pick it up.

It was a small stack of photos. Sam flipped through them – Dean and him as little kids, then as teens, then Bobby with a dark haired man in his study.

“Was that him?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice came out a little hoarse. He cleared his throat.

Sam flipped to another picture, and this one was of a blond woman about Dean and his age – maybe a little older.

“Mom,” said Dean and took the picture from his brother’s hand, staring at it.

“She looks lovely,” said Castiel gently, and rested his hand on Dean’s back.

Dean tucked the journal into his coat. “Come on. Let’s take all the grenades we can carry and get outta here.”

They took some weapons and started the drive back. When they dropped Sam back off in school, Dean parked the car in a nearby street and got out into the rain, heading for an ATM.

Castiel got out and went after him.

“Are you alright?” He asked while Dean punched his code in. The cold was biting, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yeah,” Dean said curtly. The rain left little drops on the back of his coat. “Just wanna get home.”

The ATM rolled out three fifties, and Dean took them and turned around toward the car. “Come on.”

Castiel rushed after him, shielding himself from the rain with the sleeve of his coat.

“Hold on.”

Dean turned around.

“Sorry,” he said, and his voice wasn’t as harsh. “This whole day just... isn’t easy for me.”

He took Dean’s hand, and rubbed his freezing fingertips to put some warmth into them. “I know.” He nodded his chin at a building on the other side of the street. “Want to go in?”

Dean followed his gaze. “Really?” He said. “Now?”

Castiel shrugged. “Only if you still want that Valentine’s day date.”

Dean looked back at him, and smiled in a way that made his chest warm. And in the middle of an unfamiliar street, getting soaked by the rain, having a thousand other places to be and a thousand more reasons to say no, Dean said,

“I’d love that.”

Castiel pulled him by the hand across the street and they stepped into a warm, quiet coffee shop, shaking the cold from their fingertips and the rain from their hair.

“On one condition,” said Castiel before they sat down. “No hunting talk.”

“Or school."

“Or work.”

“Deal,” said Dean, then touched his elbow. “Hold on. If we're doing this, then I guess I should mention that I got a job at some old bar."

Castiel waited for him to continue. “Yeah...?”

“Well, you said no work talk, and my ass is kind of freezing, so.”

“Fine,” he said. They could talk about it later. They took a seat at a table facing the window. “So what _are _we talking about?”

“I dunno.”

“Okay.”

They spent a minute thinking.

“Maybe-” Dean started, just when a waitress approached their table.

“What can I get you guys?” She smiled. They ordered two cups of coffee.

“You were saying?” Castiel asked when the waitress left.

“Maybe we should only ask each other questions we never have before,” said Dean.

“Alright.”

And they fell into silence again.

He looked at the stone walls. Dean tapped his fingers on the table.

“So...”

“I’ve got one,” said Dean. “How do you feel about kids?”

“Kids?” He asked. “I feel... indifferent about them. Except in the dark. I find them unsettling in the dark. Especially after that case we worked last summer...”

“Cas.” Dean touched his hand on the table. “I mean, like... a family.”

“Oh. I guess I haven’t thought about it.” He looked at Dean. “Have you?”

Dean shrugged, his eyes on the table. “I guess having a family of my own was always something I wanted, kind of low-key, you know? Never thought I'd do it with a guy, though,” He said. “Never thought I'd do it with a guy who eats burgers for breakfast and can drink eight shots like it's nothing, but...”

“Alright, alright,” said Castiel. “What do you mean by 'low-key'?”

“I’m a hunter,” said Dean, like his conclusion was obvious. “Our life span doesn’t usually reach the point of...”

And now they were both looking different places, not knowing how to avoid the unavoidable.

“So, anyway.” Dean cleared his throat. “Your turn.”

He hesitated. “I don’t know.” He wanted to ask about Mary, but something stopped him. He didn’t want to make Dean any sadder than he already was. And, except, they had a lifetime to talk about the hard things. At least for today, he wanted to be the reason Dean’s face lit up, not the source of his unhappiness. “You can go again.”

“Hey, you’re not getting away from this,” Dean let out a weak laugh. “At least try.”

“I’ve got nothing,” he said.

“Okay, try harder.”

He pursed his lips. “Alright. What are my habits that annoy you the most?”

“Nothing,” Dean answered easily. “You’re perfect.”

“That’s sweet.”

“What do I do that annoys you?” asked Dean.

“Well,” he said. “Peeing with the door open, for one.”

“I can work on that,” said Dean.

“Forgetting to buy things when you get groceries,” he continued. “Looking at your computer while I talk to you. Making bad jokes when we’re around other people.”

“Whoa,” said Dean. “Do you have, like, a list?”

“Just off the top of my head,” he said. Dean didn’t look any happier than before. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. But then he leaned forward and took Dean’s hand. “You know what I like about you?”

Dean looked up at him, and shook his head slightly.

“Your smile when you’re confused.” And he saw it in Dean’s eyes: they lit up, if dimly. “Your snoring when you fall asleep on the dining table. And the face you make when you touch something icky, you princess.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “You really know how to give a compliment.” But his grimace melted into a smile.

“Alright, one more,” said Castiel. “You never tell me about your time in high school.”

“We were in the same high school,” Dean argued.

“I mean, before SPN,” he said.

“Okay.”

“When was the moment you... you know?"

"What?"

"You know, fell in love. For the first time.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, and let out a soft “Oh.” He thought about it. Then he said, “Remember our school trip to the MoMA, your junior year?”

“Yeah.”

“We were waiting for the bus at the end of the day.”

“Sorry,” he cut Dean off. “I meant the _first_ time. You dated a bunch of people before us, didn't you?”

Dean looked at him quietly, and the look in his eyes, hesitant, careful, deliberate, didn’t change. “I was outside, on my own,” he continued. “And you walked out, and you just came and stood beside me. You didn’t say anything. It was like... there was nothing we could have said that would have made that moment more our own than it already was.” Dean was still sitting back in his chair, his hand on the table, like they were talking about the weather; but his eyes were so full of blurred emotion, half here, half in that moment two years ago in the back garden of the MoMA. “I couldn’t...” Dean raised his hand and let it drop on the table, like he was at a loss of words. “You know. That thing between us, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

Dean looked at him with the uncertainty of a person who’d just laid his heart and soul down on a table for someone else to pick up or stomp on. But Castiel nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

But one coffee stop couldn’t change routine. The next Friday, he was sitting with Meg and Garth at a bench on the lawn of their dorms, staring at his phone from the corner of his eye while his friends were eating lunch.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Meg, watching him ogle his phone over her sandwich.

“Nothing,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Texting accident?”

“No.”

“You did text me something about hamburger elevators this morning,” said Garth.

“That’s it,” said Meg. “Give me your phone.” She put her hand on the table, palm up.

“What?”

“I’m taking over. This is an intervention. I’m going to be your social mediator.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Garth.

“What? No. I’m not letting you answer my texts for me.”

Meg folded her fingers and opened her palm again in a _gimme _motion. “It’s for your own good,” she said. “And, in Satan’s name, for the good of the people you text.” She grabbed his phone. “What’s the passcode?”

He sighed and took the phone from her, unlocking it and giving it back. There was nothing in there she shouldn’t see, anyway. He hadn’t written Dean anything, so there was no reason for Dean to text him, even if Castiel was hoping he would.

Meg took the phone and looked through his messages.

“What’s this?” She asked. Castiel looked over her shoulder to see her scrolling through his chat with Hannah. “Is this really what she texts you? Yesterday: _hey, wanna meet? _The day before: _wanna come to my dorms? _The day before that: _screw the other guys, let’s go get lunch together. _Hell, woman, keep it in your pants.”

“Don’t write her anything,” he warned, but Meg was already typing. “Meg... Oh, God.”

“’I’m engaged’,” said Meg as she was typing. “’Back off’. Done.”

“That’s harsh,” said Garth.

“What? She has to learn. Okay, next.”

“I’m begging you to stop,” said Castiel.

“What?” She looked at him, and rolled her eyes at his nervous expression. “I promise I won’t be mean to people who aren’t trying to get you into bed.” She looked at the phone. “Who’s Sam?”

“Dean’s brother,” he said, squirming now to see his screen. “What does he want?”

“He’s asking whether Dean told you anything about the case. What case?”

“Tell him no.”

“What case?” Meg repeated.

“Tell him no,” he said, “Or give me my phone back.”

“Fine.” She typed it in and moved on. “You’ve got a text from Dean.” She read: “_Your ass in a suit might just change my mind about doing it in public bathrooms... _Ew, no. No no no. What the hell is the context of this?”

“Give me that,” he muttered and reached for his phone. Meg leaned away from his reach, typing hurriedly.

“’What is wrong with you, that’s gross’,” she said while she was typing.

“You said you weren’t going to be mean!” He stretched and snatched the phone from her hands.

“To people who aren’t trying to get you into bed,” she protested. “Or into a... public bathroom stall. You guys are so gross.”

“That’ll teach you not to read other people’s texts,” said Garth over his food.

Castiel checked the time. “I have work,” he said and stood up. “I’ll see you later.”

“I might drop by the library later,” said Meg. “Should I look for you?”

“Sure.” He waved them goodbye and headed off to work.

The Wayward Sisters library was huge, and quiet. He usually sat at the front desk and made eight foot long paper clip necklaces, waiting for someone to come over and check out a book, but today he didn’t feel like sitting down. He took a cart of misplaced books and started putting them back in their place. By the time his shift was halfway over, he’d put all but one book in place. The last book had no credited author, and it was marked _xxx_. He went to the back of the hall, to place it in the _XYZ _shelf. But as he put it in place, he noticed something. A few of the books back here had some strange titles. There was a book titled _Book of the Damned_. There was a book that only had the word _Curses _on it. There was The Wizard of Oz, which should have been in the _B _shelves for Baum.

He put the book marked _xxx _in place. He looked around: no one was there. He took the book titled _Book of the Damned _off the shelf and, carefully, opened it.

“Curious?” Said a voice behind him, and the book slipped from his hands and hit the carpet floor with a soft thump. He rushed to pick it up and turned around.

“I was just putting some books away,” he said to Henry. He looked over his shoulder; where did they guy come from? 

“I see you saw something that caught your attention.” Henry nodded at the book.

“Yeah, it’s...” He looked down at the book in his hands. “Let me put it back in the shelf.” And he turned to put the book back where he’d found it. His shoulders stiffened when he turned his back to his boss; something about the other man, standing calm and quiet behind him, almost friendly, yet clearly blocking his way back out, made his skin crawl.

“Are you interested in...” Henry gestured at the books around them vaguely. “This kind of thing?”

“Not really.” He took a step forward, but Henry didn’t move.

“Nonetheless, you might consider hearing me out,” he looked Castiel up and down. “My organization could really use a man like you.”

“You’re... offering me another job?” Castiel asked slowly, confused.

“Consider it more of a recruitment,” said the other man.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever heard of something called the Men of Letters?” Asked Henry.

“I haven’t.”

“Our job is, you could say, to study the occult.”

“Oh, no,” he said, taking a step back.

“Now, I’m not asking you for blind faith,” said Henry. “Anything I am telling you, I can prove.”

“Trust me, I know,” said Castiel. “I’m not interested.”

“Wouldn’t you even consider it?” Henry insisted. “You don’t know what’s out there. You don’t know what you could do.”

“I’ve got my share of weird things,” said Castiel. “The last thing I want is more of them. Thank you for... whatever this was,” he said as he pushed past Henry. “But I quit.”

He took one last look at the back shelves – he wished he could take the book he’d been looking at before Henry showed up. He had a feeling they could use it. But Henry was standing there and looking at him, almost as though guarding the books.

Just as well. He turned around and left, texting Dean on his way out.

_Something weird just happened. I think my boss is some kind of supernatural investigator. More when I get out of here._

He looked up to see Meg coming his way.

“Hey,” she said. He advanced quickly in her direction. “What are we doing?”

“Getting out of here,” he said, grabbing her arm and leading her out of the building.

“Uh... Okay,” said Meg as they walked. “Are you okay?”

“I just had a really weird conversation with my boss,” he said. “And then I quit.”

“Oh, Henry?” She asked. “Yeah, that guy creeps me out.”

He kept texting Dean as they walked. _He wanted me to join something called the Men of Letters. I told him no. Maybe I should have found out more, but I had a bad feeling about it. _

He waited for Dean to type, but he didn’t.

_Should I go back there? _He added.

_Dean?_

_Dean?_

_Dean?_

_Dean?_

“Jeez, Louise,” said Meg. “You haven’t looked up from your phone a second time since you dragged me by the arm out of the Creep Library.”

“Sorry,” he said, and put his phone away.

“So what else are you doing today?” She asked.

“Dean’s supposed to be here in a couple of hours,” he said, frowning. “Though, he usually calls before.”

But a couple of hours passed, and Dean didn’t show up, nor did he answer Castiel’s texts. He tried calling, but there was no answer. Dean must’ve fallen asleep, or lost himself in the case and forgotten their plans. So he got on a bus, convinced Dean just lost track of time. And by the time he got off the bus, he was solidly anxious.

Because Dean never forgot to pick him up. And because the last time he’s heard from him was that public bathroom text at noon, and it’s been almost eight hours since. He climbed the stairs to their apartment and opened the door, turning on the lights.

“Dean?” He looked around. No Dean. He looked into the bathroom. “Dean?”

There was a coffee mug on the table. He touched it – it was cold. Beside it was Dean’s computer, still open, and a note.

_Got a lead on the case. Urgent. Call you later._

_Love u_

_D_

He read the words again. _Call you later_.

He tried to call Dean again.

There was no answer.


	23. Something Wicked

_Hey, Bobby. If you get this message, call me back right away. Dean’s missing. Last contact I’ve had with him was Friday at noon, and that was thirty-seven hours ago. He said he was going after a lead, so I’m assuming he might have talked to you. Call me back when you get this. It’s Cas. Call me. Goodbye._

Something was buzzing.

It took him a moment to come to, and realize he’d been asleep.

And something was still buzzing.

He sent out a hand in the dark, feeling out the shape of the nightstand blindly. When his fingers reached the buzzing, he grabbed it and swiped _accept_.

“Dean?” He said into the phone – or something like it. His voice was slurred with sleep.

“No,” said a voice. “But good to see you’re taking this well.”

He opened his eyes to slits and took a look at his screen. “Bobby.”

“How’re you doing, kid?”

He squinted at his screen again. “It’s three in the morning.”

“I know,” said Bobby, and he didn’t sound happy about it. “You told me to call as soon as I got your message. Repeated it three times.”

“Right,” he said and sat up in the bed. The room was dark, only lit by the soft orange glow of the streetlights outside, and the more he stared tiredly into the space, the more his eyes adjusted to the familiar dark shapes of it.

The nightstand his phone had been on was to his left. He’d fallen asleep on Dean’s side of the bed.

“Right.”

“So it seems like we’ve got a situation,” said Bobby. He didn’t sound fazed by the late hour. Castiel tried to shake the sleep off and match his level of awareness.

“Have you heard from him?” He asked.

“Nope.”

“Do you have any idea where he went?”

“No clue,” said Bobby.

He didn't answer. He gazed into the darkened room wearily. He was so tired that he'd managed to forget he was on the phone by the time Bobby spoke again.

"What makes you think he's in trouble?"

“We had plans,” he said vaguely, trying to refocus. He’d spent the past twenty-four hours worrying about Dean, waiting for his call, rummaging through his things trying to find some kind of clue to where he was, to what he’d found that had made him disappear. “He was supposed to come to Wayward Sisters,” he told Bobby. “He would have called me if something came up. He would have...” He grasped for words, for facts over omens, for something more concrete than a hunch. “He would have left something more than a note.”

“He left a note?” Bobby asked.

“That he got a lead. And that it was urgent. It didn’t say anything else.” Nothing else that wasn’t for Castiel. Nothing else besides those two little words in the end in Dean's terrible handwriting. _Love u. _Who wrote ‘you’ using only one letter who wasn’t a five year old?

“Must’ve been pretty serious if he left in such a hurry,” Bobby muttered on the other end.

He was almost afraid to ask.

“Do you think it’s bad?”

For a heartbeat, the other man was silent.

“Have you got anything else?”

“No,” he said, “I know it’s not a lot to go on, Bobby, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Honestly, kid?” Said Bobby. “I’ve got a bad feeling, too.”

Not exactly the answer he’d hoped for.

“I’ll drive down there tomorrow and we can work the case together,” said Bobby. “There must be something there that led him in a direction we hadn’t seen before, and you and I are going to find it. We’ll find him.”

“That would be great,” he said. “Thanks.”

Bobby cleared his throat softly, like he was bracing himself for a conversation he didn’t want to have.

“What about Sam?” He asked.

Castiel’s tone hardened. “I don’t think we should tell him yet.”

“That’s a mistake,” said Bobby. “Kid needs to know.”

Castiel pursed his lips silently. Sam was in school. Telling him would mean interrupting his life and flipping it upside down for – for what? They had no idea where Dean was, no idea whether he was in trouble. If he wasn’t, they would be upsetting Sam over nothing. And if he was, then, then...

Then Sam wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it, stop dreading it, stop _picturing _it, from the moment they would tell him. It would be best for him to only know about this after they’d found Dean. And if they don’t find him, they’ll just... never tell Sam.

He let out a long exhale. “Fine,” he told Bobby. “Then I’m not the one telling him.”

Bobby sighed as deeply as if he were talking to an exasperating child. “Idjit.”

Bobby showed up at his and Dean’s apartment on Sunday night, like he had promised. He came in brushing the rain off his coat, looking as surly as ever.

“Didn’t see Dean’s car on the street,” he said.

“I think he took it,” said Castiel.

“Good.”

“Good...?”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll find a match for the license plate on a security camera somewhere,” Bobby said. “I called Ellen and Jo. They’re already on it.”

“Thanks,” Castiel said, because he didn’t know what else to say. _Hold me because I’m scared _didn’t sound quite appropriate. “So what are we doing?”

“Research,” said Bobby. “Find whatever Dean discovered, and we find Dean.” He looked around the apartment: clothes thrown on the floor with disregard, empty plates on the kitchen counter, dining table overflowing with books and newspaper cutouts. Dean’s laptop sat half-open in a corner of it, and it almost seemed to be trying to shrink in order to make room for everything else.

“Come on. I’ll fill you in,” Bobby said and went to sit at the table. “What do you know about the case?”

“Not much,” Castiel said. “Dean never mentioned what it is you’re searching for. He said you didn’t know what it was.”

“We didn’t,” said Bobby. “Until about a week ago.” He let out a sigh, his eyes on the table. “That’s when we found out about Lilith.”

“Who is she?” Castiel asked. He felt his eyebrows pull together; the name rang a bell.

“Demon,” said Bobby. “Big one. Top of the food chain. Only one above her is Lucifer himself, who's currently rotting in hell in the most literal sense.”

“You mean, in the lore?” Castiel asked.

“I mean, in real life.”

Castiel looked at him. “Hell is real?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Why would I _know_?” He asked. “Is there anything else I should know? Is God real? Santa Claus? The Grinch?”

Bobby waved his hand in dismissal. “We don’t have time for this.”

“What-“

“Lilith is a real creep, and she works fast. She’s on a mission to break seals to break Lucifer out of his cage, and she’s got hellhounds on her side to tear open whoever isn’t feeling like helping her.”

Bobby looked at him. He looked at Bobby.

“Can I speak now?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” he said. “I have fourteen questions. How-“

“I can’t explain to you the entire history of supernatural beings in one night,” said Bobby. “Read the Bible on your own time.”

“The-?”

“Big picture, Cas.”

“Right. So, Lilith? Have we run into her before? The name sounds familiar.”

“We didn’t even know she existed before last week,” said Bobby. “She doesn’t like to possess one body for too long, but she’s got a preference for possessing little girls.”

Bobby kept talking, but he wasn't listening. At his expression, Bobby's voice slowly faded. 

"What?"

“Little girls?” Castiel's eyes ran along invisible lines in the air. He was digging into his memory, digging and digging. “Blond girls?”

“I guess.” Bobby eyed him warily. “They could be blond. Why?”

“Crowley’s,” he murmured, and the memory was a wave crashing into him.

“Who?”

“Crowley’s escape room,” he said. “A year and a half ago. Dean and I went in for an interview. There was a girl, a blond girl named Lilith sitting in the waiting room. There was something off about her. I felt it from the start. Dean felt it.”

“A year and a half ago?” Bobby leaned back in his chair, and the look in his eyes was just what Castiel had prayed it wouldn’t be; defeated. “So she’s been around for much longer than we’d thought. She’s...” He swallowed thickly. “She’s much closer to Lucifer than we’d thought.”

“But what was she doing here?” Asked Castiel. “Did she know we...” This was before he even knew what monsters were. “Know Dean was a hunter?”

“This must have been what Dean realized,” said Bobby, “Right?”

“But how would that lead him to her?” Castiel asked. “There must be something else.”

Bobby’s eyes skimmed the overflowing table. “Let’s get to work, then.”

They searched every article on the table. Every note Dean had scribbled on, every open book. And then every closed book. Finally, Bobby eyed the laptop.

“Any chance you know his password?” He asked.

“No.”

He grabbed the laptop and put it in front of Castiel. “Then guess.”

Reluctantly, uncertainly, he brought the screen to life and typed in a number: _0124_. It didn’t work.

“Not his birthday,” he told Bobby.

“Try your birthday.”

He typed in: _0918_.

“No.”

“Try ‘Mary1005’.”

“No.”

“Alright,” said Bobby. “This could take all day. Let’s move on. Maybe we can find his password somewhere in this mess.”

He stared at the screen.

“Cas?”

“One more try,” he said, and typed in: _ilovepepperonipizza_.

The screen unlocked.

“How did you do that?” Bobby asked.

He shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

Dean’s browser had a million tabs open. Castiel went over them one by one: _Azazel’s Party Pizza Pies, _the clothing brand _Abaddon’s_, the website for Crowley’s escape room, a tab with security footage of a street near an ATM.

“He was shopping?” Bobby asked doubtfully.

“Maybe he was hungry,” Castiel suggested. “And in need of leather pants.”

“Hold on. Go back to the security footage.”

He clicked back on the tab, and zoomed in on something Bobby was pointing at. “What’s that?”

“Lilith,” he breathed, watching the frozen picture. It was just a normal street – how Dean knew to keep a Big Brother eye on this specific spot, he had no idea. But there she was, that creepy little blond girl, with a bunch of men in black shirts surrounding her, their heads covered with hoods, carrying various weapons under their jackets. Castiel could tell by the unnatural bumps in their coats. One of them held a knife in his hand. Another was facing the camera with his hand on his hip, and something small glimmered on his chest, reflecting light. “That’s her.”

“How long ago was this?” Bobby asked, already writing it down on a piece of paper.

Castiel read the time stamp. “Three hours.” He read the address out loud.

“We need to find out what’s there,” said Bobby. “Any idea why Dean was keeping an eye on it? Does it look familiar?”

“No,” said Castiel.

“Nothing?” Asked Bobby. “You met the girl. She didn’t give you any clues?”

“Why would she?” He asked. He thought about Dean’s behavior lately, the things he’d said the last time they saw each other.

“There _was_ something strange,” he recalled. “Last week, Dean mentioned getting a job at a bar.”

Bobby looked at him expectantly, waiting for more.

“That’s it,” he said.

“How is that strange?”

“Two jobs he could barely manage, being in over his head with this case, not even having time to look up at me from the computer while I’m home for the weekend? And out of nowhere, he takes on a whole other job?” He said. “It seemed strange at the time, but I didn’t ask.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot,” said Bobby. “Let’s check it out.”

In the ten p.m. rain, they went out to search for the bar. It didn’t take long; they’d only gone through three or four places around the city before entering a place called _Belphegor_. Bobby didn’t say _follow my lead_, but his confident stride into the room said it for him. He sat at the bar and tapped on the counter, nodding at the bartender, just like he had four times earlier that night.

“What can I get you?” Asked the bartender, and before Castiel had the time to recognize him, the man pointed at him.

“Cas, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know each other?” Bobby asked.

“I guess.”

“We’re neighbors,” said the guy, reaching out a hand for Bobby to shake. “Benny.”

Benny. Right.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“We’re looking for Dean,” said Castiel.

“He’s not here.”

“He’s been missing,” said Bobby. “For three days.”

Benny’s composure faded. “What?”

“He told me he got another job last week,” said Castiel. “We were hoping it was here.”

“Yeah, that’s the place,” said Benny, somewhat fazed.

“Did he ever mention why he took the job?” Asked Bobby.

“You mean, beside the case?”

“You knew about the case?” Asked Castiel.

“I knew there was a case. He wouldn’t tell me anything else. Said he needed the job to keep an eye on the crowd.”

“You a hunter?” Bobby asked. Benny paused, reluctant to answer.

“He’s a vampire,” said Castiel quietly, though no one around them seemed to be listening.

“A va-”

“Did he ever talk to anyone while he was here?” Castiel interrupted. Bobby sent a frown his way.

“He talked to lots of people.”

“Anyone that stood out to you?”

“Not that I can think of,” said Benny.

He looked at Bobby.

“Back to square one.”

They made to leave, but Castiel turned around.

He remembered something; something small. Something meaningless.

“Was anyone Dean ever talked to eating French fries?” He asked.

Benny thought about it for a few moments. “There was one girl,” he said finally. “Why is that important?”

Bobby looked at him questioningly, probably wondering the same thing.

“Can you write down her name for me?”

“Only heard Dean call her Ruby.”

“Ruby?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not a particularly challenging name.”

“What is it?” Bobby asked.

“We knew a demon named Ruby,” said Castiel. “She’s the one who kidnapped Sam and broke Dean’s leg last summer. Was this Ruby a demon?” He asked Benny.

“Could’ve been.”

“Blond, red jacket?”

“No,” said Benny. “She was a brunette, wearing all black.”

He looked at Bobby, who shrugged. “She might have changed meatsuits”

“Any idea where we can find her?” He asked Benny.

“None. Sorry.”

“Thanks for everything,” he said, and turned to Bobby. “Let’s go.”

From behind them: “Hold on.”

They turned around.

“For what it’s worth – I hope you find him alright.” The sentiment in Benny’s voice was genuine. Castiel recalled the first time Dean had mentioned him – how the first thing he’d said was _I love that guy._ This bond he had with Dean went deeper than Castiel could think.

“I’m sure we will,” he said hollowly.

“Do you think the lead Dean was talking about had to do with this Ruby chick?” Bobby asked when they stepped out of the bar. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the cold air was harsh and burning. He had no idea what time it was – one a.m.? Two? He wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore. Did he have school tomorrow?

Nothing seemed to really matter anymore. Nothing was quite as important as this, as Bobby’s questions, as the cold.

“If it did, I’ll talk to Sam,” he said. “Maybe he saw something when she took him captive.”

Bobby waited a moment before asking: “How did you know the French fries would lead us to her?”

They got into the car.

“I didn’t,” he said. “I was out of ideas, and it was something stupid that kept nagging me.” He hesitated; he didn’t want Bobby to think he conducted his investigations on arbitrary, insignificant details. Even if that’s exactly what he did. “Last week, I heard Dean mumble in his sleep.”

“Mumble?” Bobby asked. “Her name?”

“No. He was saying, ‘French fries’. It was a long shot, but I thought it might be something that stood out to him about someone he was talking to.”

“He must have realized he knows Ruby and tried to fish for information, right?” Asked Bobby. He stopped by Dean and Castiel’s building and put the car into Park. He didn’t get out.

“I don’t know,” said Castiel.

“But then what happened?” Bobby asked. “He took Ruby? Tortured her for information?” He fell silent, and Castiel could hear in this silence what he didn’t say: _the other way around?_

“I don’t know,” said Castiel. Every time he said it, he felt more lost and helpless than the last.

Bobby let out a sigh. “I’ll get a motel in town,” he said. “And try to work with what we’ve got. I’ll let you know if I find anything before next weekend.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got school, haven’t you?”

“No,” he said, and it came out extremely unconvincing. “We’re on a break.”

“What break?” Bobby asked skeptically.

“The end-of-February break,” he answered.

Bobby patted his shoulder. “Get out,” he said. “And get some sleep. There’s nothing more you can do right now than what I can do on my own. I’ll give you a call if anything comes up.”

He hesitated. A scene played in his mind; Dean, showing up safe and sound on their door in a week, or a day, or an hour – and having to explain to him that he wasn’t intending on going back to school. _You’re kidding me, right? The only time we came close to breaking up, it was over stupid exam season, and now you were going to just drop out of school because I went away for a few days? _He could almost hear it in Dean’s voice._ That’s not character development, Cas. It’s just plain dumb. _

He opened the car door. “If you don’t call me the second you find something...”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Bobby. As Castiel stepped out of the car, he thought he heard him mumble, “Ungrateful Winchesters” under his breath.

“I heard that,” he grumbled back.

“Good,” said Bobby. Then he was off.

Slowly, heavily, he took the stairs up to the apartment. He glanced at the clock a couple of times, but his brain refused to register the hour. Late; too late to give him a proper night’s sleep if he wanted to catch a bus to school in the morning.

He brushed his teeth and changed his clothes in a haze. He was getting used to the apartment being deadly quiet. It was starting to sink in: Dean was gone, and it didn't seem like he was coming back unless they found him.

He lay in bed for a while, just staring at the ceiling. He felt the exhaustion in every bone of his body. But there was an unsettling feeling in closing his eyes for more than a few moments, and the bed felt too big without a warm body snoring softly by his side. After about four eternities of staring at the ceiling he sat up in bed. By now, his eyes were accustomed to this dim darkness, painted soft, faint orange in the light of the lampposts outside. He touched the lace around his neck, watched the dull light bounce off his ring in the dark, and he felt dean's hands on his face. Three, maybe four months ago. On their bed, one completely ordinary afternoon. Kissing him. Pulling him closer. And he'd said, _I need to study._

_I need to study._ He'd thought there was time, and he didn't treasure his moments. Who on earth thought, I should be happy now, because later I’ll be miserable? Who thought, I better treasure these memories, better love them with everything I’ve got, because they're about to become the very thing that haunts me and takes away my sleep?

He let go of his ring and lay back down, closing his eyes insistently. If he must lay here, exhausted and wide awake with pictures of Dean running through his mind, he refused them to be pictures that made panic rise up his throat and take the air out of his lungs. It will be something that would make him smile, always, no matter his fear and his pain, just like Dean did.

Just like Dean _does_.

In the cold, empty bed, he waited for sleep to come, playing out again and again in his head Dean holding a bra away from his body at _Abaddon's_ and wrinkling his nose, because that was the only thing he could think of that didn’t make him want to cry.


	24. Faith

Castiel found himself sitting on a chair at his dining table. There was something unsettling in the air that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

It became ruthlessly apparent when he looked up at the kitchen, and saw Dean standing by the counter: he was dreaming.

He didn’t like this, didn’t like how real it felt, though it was hard to tell why. He couldn’t remember what it was that was so wrong about this scene. Dean was oblivious to his mood: smile wide, holding a frozen bag in each hand.

“Pizza rolls?” He lifted one hand, and then the other. “Or pizza puffs?”

“What are you doing?” He asked. Why was he asking this? “What are you doing here?”

Dean’s grin faltered, and then he remembered.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, but there was something in his tone that made Castiel uneasy. An edge. He knew something was wrong, too.

“You left,” he answered. It came out plainer, more hurt than he’d intended. “You left me.”

“Left? I didn’t leave.” Dean grabbed the shoelace around his neck and held it up, a proof. “Still got my ring, don’t I?”

Something stuck in his throat. It was a weird, semi-real feeling; he wasn’t usually as connected to his body in his dreams. But this was... Was this-

“You’re coming back?” He was saying, before he could stop himself, and the hope in his voice was forceful. “Where are you?”

“I'm your subconscious, you butt.” Dean dropped into a chair, and with him, all of Castiel’s faith. “I have no idea where the real me is.”

“Why would-” he started saying, but a ringing cut him off. A phone on the table that he hadn’t noticed was there before.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Better answer that,” he said. “Who knows. It might be me.”

He picked it up.

“Hello?”

A familiar voice answered him, and everything around him disappeared like a fog clearing out. He was back in his bed, his limbs heavy, phone in hand. He’d answered it out of sleep.

“Hold on,” he said, to make the person repeat themselves, and to give himself a moment to recover. “What?”

“I just called to say hi.” His father. He sat up, kicking off the blanket, looking over to the sunlit kitchen, and remembered his dream. “I never got to say proper congrats.”

“Congrats?” Castiel asked, trying to sound collected rather than half-asleep, though it was probably too late to save face. He racked his brain – congrats for what?

“For the engagement,” Chuck explained.

Oh.

“Oh.”

“...Yeah,” said Chuck, somewhat awkwardly.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he said. Bobby had said – and he’d agreed – telling anyone Dean was missing might lead to consequences they very much wanted to avoid. People passing on information. Police asking questions. “Yes. I’m just... I’ve got a lot on my mind. Sorry.”

“You sure?” Asked Chuck.

“Yeah.” His throat felt thick. “Everything’s great.”

“Okay,” his father said. “Talk to you later.”

He hung up.

He checked his messages: there was one text message, from Dean’s brother. He’d written, _Hey, Cas. Hope you’re doing alright. Call me when you get the chance. It’s Sam._

Why did everyone want to talk to him so early in the morning? He checked the time – and jumped out of bed so quickly he had to grasp Dean’s nightstand to avoid falling face-down on the floor.

It was nine a.m.

He was late to school.

He got ready in a messy, hasty blur, hesitating by the door. He wasn’t quite ready to leave, to get back to routine, to a life that wasn’t centered around Dean’s disappearance.

There wasn’t time for uncertainty. He closed the door, and locked it behind him.

But by the time he got to school, the thought he’d had at the door sipped out of his mind like black oil, slick and evading. As his classes passed he realized he had been wrong. Dean’s absence wasn’t something he could lock behind a door and leave at the house. He carried it like a weight on his shoulders. It wasn’t a nightmare; it wasn’t a fleeting worry. It went with him everywhere he went, affected everything he touched.

During break, he called Sam. He answered instantly.

“Hey, Cas,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

“Great,” he said. It was thick with dishonesty. He took a breath and remembered he should go easy on the boy; he was finally talking to someone Dean’s disappearance hit just as hard as it hit him – maybe harder. He knew Bobby loved Dean like his own – but maybe he didn’t need him as much. Wasn’t as dependent on his comforting presence as a teenage brother or a broken lover.

“Are you alright?” He asked into the phone, his voice softer now.

“Yeah,” Sam said tightly, and it sounded just as forced. His next words held an effort to sound casual. “Hey, where are you?”

“I’m at school.” If you could call it that. His mind felt like it was anywhere _but _school.

“Are you staying there for the week?”

“No,” he said. “No, I’m going back home tonight.” He wasn't going to leave that place for a minute longer than he had to, if there was a chance Dean was coming back to it – hurt, or needing him, or just plain coming back home.

“Can I stay over for a few days?” Sam asked.

“You have school,” Castiel argued.

“We're on a break."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, tone as skeptical as Bobby’s not twelve hours ago, when he’d asked him the same question. “What break?”

A heartbeat’s hesitation.

“Start-of-spring break,” Sam replied finally, desperately, as though he knew how flimsy his answer was.

Castiel pursed his lips, and the scene of the college around him – the grass, the picnic tables, the gentle biting cold – it all faded into background.

Dean was gone. And in his absence, someone had to fill the space. Someone had to make the tough decisions, to deal with the consequences, to take care of his family.

And that meant to have Sam’s back. To have Bobby’s back, and Christ, Charlie’s.

“This might take a while,” he said to Sam rigidly. He didn’t want to do this, had to force the words out. But this was what family meant. Maybe not his biological family – family didn’t start in blood; but it didn’t end there either. “Getting back to normal,” he went on, and Sam didn’t need to ask what he meant. “You can’t just miss school.”

“I'll... I'll go to school,” Sam resolved weakly.

“An hour to and from, every day?” His tone was harsh with doubt, not letting on the hypocrisy he felt at the knowledge that he was doing just the thing Sam was suggesting to do.

“Yeah,” said Sam, and there was uncertainty in his voice. Not unsure of his words – but rather afraid of Castiel’s reaction. Sam was saying: _I need to be with someone else who loves him right now, someone else who cares, because everyone around me is going about their day unconcerned and I can't stand it for another moment._

He let out an exhale. “Fine.” He was saying: _me, too. _An idea formed in his mind, and he added, “I'll come pick you up tonight.”

That afternoon, after his classes ended, he walked back to the bus station without saying a word to his friends. Instead of going home, he watched the shabby, welcoming neighborhood pass by and got off the bus in a nicer one. He walked up the stairs to the front porch of his old house, and rang the doorbell.

It took about an entire two minutes for the door to open. Chuck stood on the other side, smiling at him with surprise.

“Castiel. What are you doing here?”

“Just checking in,” he answered, stepping inside. “How are you doing?”

“Sober,” said Chuck. “Though sometimes I wish I wasn’t. You know what it’s like.”

_I do, _he wanted to say, watching the familiar landscape of the old house. Pictures on the walls. Rugs on the floor. _Now more than ever. _

“How’s school?”

“Good.”

“How’s Dean?”

“I need a favor.” He turned around to face his father.

Chuck looked up at him with an even stare, as if he were thinking, _the cat’s out of the bag._

“Can I take your spare car?” He asked. “Just for a few weeks.”

_Just for a few weeks? _His brain retorted bitterly. _And then, what? Dean will magically show up at your door inside a blue-ribboned box?_

“Of course,” said Chuck. “Hold on.”

He was back with the keys after a moment. Castiel gave him a curt “Thanks” and turned to leave, but Chuck’s hand landed on his shoulder, turning him around.

“What’s going on?”

He shifted with unease, smoothing his expression. “What do you mean?”

“You’re exhausted,” said Chuck, as though as a proof. “You look miserable, and you’re in need of a car.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said. “But, trust me, the moment I get home I’ll fix that.”

Chuck folded his arms over his chest.

“That’s it,” said Castiel innocently.

Chuck raised his eyebrows.

He sighed with vague frustration. He’d promised Bobby he wouldn’t say anything.

But this was his father. The only person in his family who actually cared about him – who he still cared about.

“Dean’s missing,” he said tiredly, rubbing a hand at his face.

Chuck’s expression fell. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Chuck patted his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Yeah. He’s out there, somewhere.” Very weakly, he added, “Probably.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah. As soon as we find him.” He started to turn away, but then Chuck said,

“I’m sure you’ll get through it, no matter what happens.”

He paused.

“If we find him.”

“Even if you don’t,” said Chuck, a lighthearted mask to his tone, but it was just a mask.

“If we find him,” Castiel insisted through his teeth.

“Of course,” said Chuck. “But, you know, you can’t control how the story ends. Life goes on. Other fish in the sea and all that.”

“But he was _my _fish,” Castiel snapped. “He’s my fish.”

They stood in silence for a moment while it sank in how ridiculous he sounded.

“You know what I mean,” he let out finally.

Chuck just watched his pained expression, looking a little lost.

It wasn’t quite the romance.

Chuck’s words had stirred something in him, something that made his jaw tight and his heart hard. It wasn’t the romance he was grieving; lovers could be replaced, as hard as it was to admit it.

But people couldn’t.

Dean wasn’t just his fiancé, and he wasn't just a love interest. He was his best friend, a person, a whole _life_.

That wasn’t the kind of thing you just forgot about.

He sat leaning on his father’s spare car – his old one – and skimmed the parking lot of Sam’s school for a familiar face. Sam showed up after a minute, hugging him tightly. It took him by surprise, but he raised a hand to rest around Sam’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly.

The car ride was quiet. Sam didn’t seem particularly horror-stricken, or like he was about to burst into tears, or any of the other things Castiel felt and didn’t show. A little agitated, maybe – his foot tapped the car floor nervously.

“How are you doing?” He asked halfway through the ride.

Castiel shook his head slowly. “Screw the other fish,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. We’ll find him.”

Back at home, he dug through the closet to find a sleeping bag for Sam.

“I’m sorry,” he said and handed it to him. “We don’t have an extra mattress. I can take the sleeping bag, if you want.”

“It’s okay,” said Sam and took the bag.

It was getting late, and after providing Sam with dinner, a towel, a toothbrush and a blanket, he took a shower and got into bed.

He couldn’t close his eyes.

It was the picture of his father. Him saying something about fish – he didn’t remember his exact words anymore. Something about fish. Was he comparing Dean to a fish? It was all becoming a blur. And Chuck’s face, stripped of pretenses, seeming almost disappointed at his adamant loyalty to Dean.

He wasn’t going to fall asleep like this. He got up and headed to the fire escape outside the kitchen window - skipping over Sam’s body on the floor, already asleep.

Outside, he called Bobby.

“Any news?” He asked quietly when Bobby answered.

“Not good ones," said Bobby. "I checked out the place from Dean’s security footage. There’s nothing there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything looks normal. No sulfur, no EMF. I checked all the buildings around it – nothing.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. “Dead end. But that’s not where the bad news ends.”

He sucked in a breath, bracing for it. “What is it?”

“Lilith’s plan to bring Satan to life? It’s happening.”

“I know it’s happening,” he said, trying to stifle the edge in his voice. Considering the way each of them has handled this so far, Bobby should be frustrated with him, not the other way around.

“No, Cas. I mean, it’s _happening_. Soon. We’re running out of time. We’ve been so focused on Dean, we forgot the actual case we need to work. This gal’s about to awaken Lucifer, and we’ve got to stop her.”

“When?”

“No way to tell. My guy Garth said-”

“Garth?” He said. “That’s weird. My roommate’s...”

“Cas,” said Bobby, sounding like it was coming from between clenched teeth. _Big picture._ “Anyway, I talked to him this morning, and he told me next forty-eight hours.”

“Where?”

“No idea.”

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” said Bobby. “I guess we sleep on it. And deal with it tomorrow.”

He watched the quiet buildings around him, wrapped in black and streetlamp-orange. Something welled up inside him, and it took him a moment to be able to speak it without his voice breaking.

“He can't be dead, Bobby. He can't be dead, because I don't know what I would do.”

Bobby’s response was quiet, an echo of the resignation in Castiel’s own voice. “I know, kid.”

When he went back inside, Sam was sprawled all over the floor. The kid was almost taller than him, and he was sorry now he didn’t give him the bed.

At least he seemed to be sleeping soundly.

There was a comfort in another body sleeping in the house, another chest rising and falling, the sound of breathing driving the dead silence of the previous nights out the window. It made falling asleep possible, now.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in the same setting.

Same as _what?_ He couldn’t remember; but something about it rang deeply familiar.

He was sitting at the dining table, Dean grinning at him from the kitchen.

“Pizza rolls, or pizza puffs?” He asked.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel shot back, and a feeling of déjà vu swept over him. “You left me.” His words were recited, directed by his subconscious.

Dean’s hand rose to his own chest, clasping his ring. “Still got my ring, don’t I?”

He woke up with an odd forcefulness, sitting upright so fast that the air drained out of his lungs. Stumbling over Sam in the dark, waking him up and barely registering it.

“Cas?” Sam propped himself up on an elbow, his voice rough from sleep. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t turn around. He felt out the table in the dark, and when his fingers found Dean’s laptop, he opened it hastily.

He typed in the password. _Ilovepepperonipizza_. He looked through the tabs.

It didn’t take him more than a minute to find what he was searching for: the picture Bobby and him saw the day before, from Dean’s security footage.

Lilith. Surrounding her, a ring of hooded men. Weapons under their coats. Knives. Guns. And one – one facing the camera, and something small reflecting light on his chest.

A ring.

He snatched the laptop and his keys, rushing over to the door and kicking his feet into his shoes.

“I might have found him,” he told Sam breathlessly. “Stay here.” And before he had finished his sentence, he was already flying down the stairs.

It was a quarter past four in the morning when he knocked on Bobby’s motel door.

On about the sixth set of knocks Bobby opened, his frown deeper than ever, his words slurred by sleep.

“What now?”

“I think I found him.”

At that, Bobby’s eyes cleared. He made way for Castiel to step inside and pulled a chair beside him at the flimsy, rusting round table of his motel room.

Castiel opened Dean’s laptop and pointed at the man in the picture.

“Look at his chest.”

Bobby squinted at the chest. “Yeah?”

Castiel lifted his own ring for him to see.

He looked back and forth between Castiel and the man. Finally: “Does Dean...?”

“Same one.”

Bobby stared at the picture wordlessly.

“What do you think he’s doing there? A hunter surrounded by demons?”

“He must have been trying to get to Lilith through Ruby,” said Bobby. “Pretend he's on their side.”

Castiel leaned back in his chair, coldness running through him. Bobby went on, putting into words his own thoughts.

“Realized he knew them. Tried to convince them he was breaking bad. Your vampire friend was just one more reason for her to believe Dean had switched sides.”

“We need to find out where they are,” Castiel said sharply.

“How?” Bobby asked.

“Go there.”

“I was there twelve hours ago, Cas. I found nothing.”

“Go there again.” His voice was cold, blinded with determination. “Now.”

And finally – he understood it. Dean’s sightlessness, his unreason at Ruby taking his brother months and months ago. And Dean had been right; he was ready to charge through the door, plan or no plan. It didn’t matter. There was only one thing that mattered.

Bobby pulled him back into his chair, and he realized he had stood up.

“We need a plan,” said Bobby.

“We need to go,” he seethed.

“I ain’t going nowhere without a plan.”

“Then I-”

“Cas.” Bobby looked into his eyes. He shut his mouth. “We need a plan.”

“Yeah.”

He relaxed into his chair.

It felt like giving up.

Bobby didn’t seem as resigned. He was staring at the picture of Dean and the demons, as if it could be holding the answer they were looking for. And then his eyes fixated on something, and he stilled – as if the picture _was _holding their answer.

“Look at the way he’s standing,” he said.

Castiel looked. There wasn’t anything particular about it; facing the camera, one hand resting on his hip, elbow bent to his... side.

“What’s his elbow pointing at?”

“Exactly,” said Bobby. He traced the lines of the street in the picture, mumbling words in an effort to recall.

“He knew we’d see this picture,” Castiel said, and his heart gave a kick. How similar this felt to communicating, to actually talking to Dean. Different time, different place, and still Dean found a way to speak to them.

To him.

“Or hoped we would,” answered Bobby. He tracked the invisible line from Dean’s elbow to the borders of the picture, and said: “Church. He’s pointing at a church.” He looked at Castiel. “Let’s go.”

The first sign stood on the road at the front of the church, wonderfully black and shiny, undamaged.

Dean’s car.

They were in the right place.

He exchanged an acknowledging glance with Bobby, and they stepped closer to the door of the church in silence, holding their guns close to their chests. Bobby tipped his head, trying to hear inside. He shook his head; nothing. Castiel tilted his head slightly toward the door, a question in his eyes, and Bobby nodded in turn.

They were going in.

Bobby slid the door open and moved inside swiftly, Castiel close behind him. For a moment, they padded into the massive hall, prepared for a fight. The next moment, he saw Bobby’s shoulders slacken with relief, his gun hand dropping. When he moved forward to stand beside the older man, he saw why.

Lilith was lying on the ground, motionless. Blood was... Everywhere. A horrifying amount of it. But Lilith – Lilith was dead.

It was done. No Lucifer. No apocalypse.

The breath of relief that escaped his lungs emptied his chest.

Bobby stepped into the room. “This place is about as bloody as when that pagan god came to life.” Castiel looked at him questioningly, but he didn’t see it. His shoulders stiffened at something he saw on the other side of the room, and he turned around. In his eyes was something between anger and horror that froze Castiel’s veins.

“What is it?” He asked, stepping closer.

“You’re not gonna wanna see this,” said Bobby, but he was already pushing past him. “Cas-”

It was too late.

Too late, too late.

He dropped to his knees, barely registering that his calves were soaking in blood. Dean’s blood.

He touched Dean’s shoulder, and his hand didn’t shake. It felt like he was out of his body, unable to feel pain, unable to feel anything.

“What happened?” His voice was stiff. Cold. Lifeless.

Behind him, quietly: “Hellhounds.”

His hand drifted over Dean’s body in disbelief, avoiding the parts that were torn, that were inside out, that made him want to vomit.

Bobby touched his shoulder. “Come on. We’ve gotta go before police gets here.”

“Go?” His voice was barely audible. “I can’t...” _Leave him._

But bobby walked round and lifted dean’s body by the shoulders, saying, “Care to gimme a hand?”

Back at the apartment, Sam sprung to his feet when they opened the door, hope in his eyes. Castiel shook his head slightly at his urgent look. He took in the blood on the two men’s clothes, their expressions.

“What happened?” He asked, hardly audible.

“Demons got to him before we did.”

He sank back into his chair.

The look in his eyes was a knife in Castiel’s gut.


	25. Abandon All Hope

The sunlight did him good.

People were walking around, from one class to another, or to the library or cafeteria. Life was going on, as it did when it left any person behind.

Castiel sat at a picnic bench and stared at his phone.

His eyes couldn’t seem to be able to focus on more than one thing at a time these days. He found himself sitting in class, in the library, in the dining hall, staring at one thing at a time. The clock. The coffee machine. His phone. He felt his note inside his jeans pocket as clearly as if it had burned his skin through the fabric.

He shook the feeling off. Slowly, unwillingly, he picked up the phone and wrote a text message. _Hey, Charlie. Sam said he talked to you about Dean. So... the funeral is tomorrow at five. It's just going to be us and Bobby. I hope we'll see you. It’s Cas._

He took the note out, unfolded it, read the words inside.

_Got a lead on the case. Urgent. Call you later._

_Love u. _

He folded the paper. Felt its texture and its creases against his fingertips.

That _love u_ was the last thing Dean had told him. He searched his brain, tried to remember the last words Dean really said to him, the last time he’d heard his voice. A Thursday night – on the phone in his dorms. He didn’t remember anymore what they’d been talking about. Something to do with sandwiches._“Pickled sandwiches aren't the same as sandwiched pickles.”_

Well, that was far worse than _“love u”_.

He flipped the note between his fingers. Charlie wasn’t texting him back. He hoped he had the right number. Some days-

He took in a breath, held it in to block out the panic.

Some days, being without Dean felt like stumbling around in the dark.

Other days it felt plain normal.

He thought these shifts might kill him.

Someone dropped onto the bench beside him, and he shoved the note into his pocket.

“What’s up, nerd?” Asked Meg. She eyed the hand stuffed into his pocket for a moment. Then her eyes jumped onto something behind him, before focusing on him.

He took the hand out and turned around. Garth was standing a few feet away from them, talking to Hannah. She looked upset and was gesturing in Castiel’s direction, making a point he couldn’t hear. Garth had his hand on her shoulder, appeasing her. No – setting a boundary, Castiel realized when Garth turned around and came to sit with them, leaving Hannah to walk away looking dissatisfied.

“What is this?” He asked when Garth sat down on the opposite side to them.

“An intervention,” said Meg.

Castiel's eyes shifted between the two of them warily. “What for?”

Meg’s expression softened. She looked over at Garth; he was looking at her with the same distress.

“You’ve been missing classes,” said Meg. She looked at the table when she spoke. “And looking like hell when you’re here.”

"Did you come here to insult me?"

“You’ve abandoned your side of our dorm with everything in it,” Garth added.

“There’s just a lot going on,” Castiel said, somewhat defensively.

“That’s actually the thing,” said Meg. Her eyes were full of concern. It was unsettling. Meg didn't get concerned; she just got rude. “Dean hasn’t been around in a while.” She said it so carefully, as if the name were a landmine she knew very well she was stepping on. Garth signaled her something with his eyes, and she added, “And you always sit places and watch your ring, or this note you just shoved in your pocket...” She took a breath.

Gently, Garth said, “Did you and Dean break up?”

He stared at them wordlessly.

“Because, you know,” said Garth, “We’re here for you.”

“Yeah,” said Meg.

He swallowed. “No,” he said thickly. “No, we’re good.”

“Okay,” said Meg, and it was clear she had been expecting a different answer.

“Okay,” he said stiffly, and stood up. “Is that all?”

Meg and Garth exchanged looks. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Great.” It came out flat. His friends looked up at him with concern.

He just walked away.

He drove away in Chuck’s car, never wanting to look back. This was what he did when things got messy – push everyone away, the further the better.

Being home wasn’t any better. It was a living shrine to Dean, to everything they’d worked for. His clothes. The coffee mugs. The goddamned floorboards.

He couldn’t get away from it, no matter where he went. His dorm room, his house, the open roads. It was him. It was in him. He was a breathing testament to – to someone who wasn’t there. His ring. His note. His chest. His fingertips, his face, his hair. Everywhere Dean ever touched, so alive it hurt.

Sam showed up back from school in the afternoon, and Bobby with him.

They met Charlie at the edge of the forest. When they started digging, she asked,

“Aren’t we having a hunter’s funeral?”

Bobby grimaced, threw Sam and Castiel a look, and kept digging. “If it were up to me...” He muttered.

“We’re not burning him,” said Sam quietly as he passed by her with a shovel.

They’d agreed on it, in the loose meaning of the term. They would find a way to bring Dean back, Castiel had said, and Sam couldn’t bear to see his brother burn. The disagreement was on Bobby’s part. He’d called them both idiots with a ‘j’ and said what they had in mind wasn’t possible, and if it was, they didn’t want to pay the price. He’d said, take an old man’s words for it who’s been in the field longer than both your lifetimes combined. It’s not worth it.

Castiel believed him.

It didn’t change a thing.

Charlie stepped in to help without saying a word.

“Dean would have loved this place,” said Sam when they were done. Maybe he was right; it was a peaceful spot, with the trees to one side and the open road to the other. “Anyone wanna say anything?”

No one answered. Charlie and Sam had their eyebrows pulled together like they were a dam holding back an ocean behind it. Bobby looked even rougher. Castiel couldn’t imagine how he felt, picking up Dean’s and Sam’s and his messes, caring for them like a parent, and getting a dead body and no gratitude for it.

“Well,” said Sam into their silence. “He didn’t die for nothing.”

Bobby shook his head. “Your father died to save this kid’s life. And now he died to save the world. Winchesters don’t go easy.”

Castiel shifted to look at him. Dean never told him that. Bobby picked up a bottle of whiskey and spilled some on the ground.

He supposed now wasn’t a good time to ask.

Sam left his house when they came back. He hugged Castiel again and said, “Thanks for everything.” Castiel didn’t know what was everything supposed to be.

Bobby left with him. He patted Castiel’s shoulder and said, “Hang in there, kid.”

Somehow, that sentence became a lump that stuck in his throat. He was starting to realize this: Dean’s brother was leaving, Bobby was leaving, and for the first time, he was settling into lonesomeness, this time for good. Whatever life he’d built with Dean – he was going to have to build another one now.

“Thank you,” he told Bobby. “Really.”

“You’ll be alright here?”

“I’ll figure something out,” he said.

He wasn’t sure what to do after they left. He didn’t have the patience for schoolwork, and he couldn’t stand the sight of home anymore.

He grabbed his coat and Dean’s keys and walked down the stairs. Put the key into the car door. Turned. Opened. Sat.

Looked around. The look wasn’t as bad as the scent. So distinctively Dean’s, even more so than at home. Still spotless, this car, even though it had been left abandoned in front of some church while its owner was long lying dead inside. He breathed its air in as if it could give him some of its life and stared out the window.

One thing at a time.

Streetlamps. Bus station. Old, cracked cement on the sidewalks. He focused as hard as he could. But still, he couldn’t push back what was inside: Dean’s cassette tapes, the _S.W D.W_ etched into the side years ago.

He shook his head. He was losing it.

Enough self pity. He got out of the car. He was going to bring Dean back somehow, in some way, any way he could. Because he didn’t get dragged into this world of hunters and hellhounds and demons just to get a dead fiancé out of it. 

And if all the things Dean faced had met an angry Winchester before, then wait until they meet him.

This story wasn’t over.

Month after month passed, and Bobby’s words proved truer with every attempt to bring Dean back. Castiel read, drove, dug, searched, interrogated, tortured, spelled, chanted, prayed, and hit a dead end every time anew. No demon wanted to make a deal with him. No witch was willing to help a hunter. No monster gave up information.

It was impossible.

He screened all his calls. If he had a job before, he couldn’t remember what it was now. Some days he remembered to go to school.

It was four months later when his phone rang, and the caller ID showed a name that had never called him before.

“Charlie,” he said into the phone when he answered.

“Hey.” She sounded surprised. Castiel took a moment to vaguely wonder whether she’d gotten the impression he was screening people from people he was screening. “What’s up?”

“I’m not interested in small talk.” Another thing he could barely remember was the days he used to have patience for small talk, or bothered to lie when people asked him what was up.

“No small talk.” Charlie’s tone was cautious now, and still she made an effort to sound friendly. “Okay. So. I have some friends in town I wanted to meet up with, and I just thought, maybe I could stay over at your house for a while?”

“Um.” He looked around. The house was a mess. He supposed he could tell her no. Or he could spare a couple of hours to clean for the first time in a while. “Yeah. Alright.”

And so this was a situation he found himself, voluntarily, inside of. Charlie showed up with dinner, which was pretty nice of her, or maybe just strategic since he wouldn’t have had much to offer her.

They ate in silence. Castiel tried to focus on his food and deter her from thinking to make conversation. He tried to ignore the fact that he couldn't recall ever having been alone in the same room with her.

It was one of those nights his phone kept ringing, and he kept hitting _ignore_. Charlie eyed him. And here it came: conversation.

“Who’re you screening?” She asked.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Your dad?” She must have seen the screen before he could turn it off. “Does he call you a lot?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever pick up?”

“Trying to balance things out,” he grumbled. “I still owe him some good while of ‘being an assbutt’ for us to be even.”

Charlie took a moment before she spoke. And it was gentle, said to the table between them. “Do you ever regret not picking up when Dean used to call?”

It hit home. Made an impact, though maybe not the impact she’d hoped for. He pushed his chair back and put his plate in the sink.

“I think I’m going to spend some time out the fire exit.”

She eyed him. “I could stay with my friends, you know.” He couldn’t infer from her tone whether she was serious or sardonic.

“Why don't you do that, then,” he muttered to the sink.

There was a moment of silence, and he could see her reflection looking at him in a washed pot on the counter.

“You're just like him,” she said in this quiet, sad, distraught way.

“What is that supposed to mean?” He snapped back.

“This is such a Dean Winchester move. To shut everyone out, get into his own bubble of self destruction and pretend the outer world doesn’t exist.”

He took a breath and considered her words. Maybe this _was_ Dean-like behavior. It wasn’t a behavior he’d picked up from Dean, if that was what Charlie was thinking. He wondered whether Dean picked it up from him. Or if they were both like this, before they met each other.

“I overstepped,” said Charlie. “I talked to the guys, you know. They're worried about you. I told them you probably just wanted to be alone, but they said, he won't return our calls, he's all alone in there, feeling like he's the only person going through this. He needs someone to remind him there might be another way. So... here. There's another way, Cas, if you want it. All you gotta do is call. I'll be on the other end. We all will.”

She stood up – he could see it reflected in the pot.

“Wait,” he said when she picked up her bag.

He wasn’t used to this, to a family who tried to push in instead of pushing away.

“Let me find the sleeping bag."

Charlie seemed to have the wind knocked out of her for the rest of the evening. She wasn’t mad anymore, or reproaching. They sat at the dining table, staring at their mugs, until Charlie spoke.

“Kind of thought it would last forever for you two,” she said.

“That’s the only ending hunters get,” he answered. “Dean used to say that. I guess I never saw it happening to us.” Or maybe he’d seen it all along, and figured hoping otherwise was enough to stop it from coming true.

“It’s hard to imagine something so good going so wrong,” said Charlie, and wrapped her hands around her mug. Steam came out of it in small, almost-invisible clouds. “Maybe,” she said, “Maybe it’s time you stopped searching for ways to bring him back and tried to focus on... moving on.”

He stared at the table. He didn’t want to start fighting again.

“Cas,” she said softly.

“Yeah.”

“Can I tell you my opinion?”

He sighed. “Go ahead.”

“You're just gonna have to accept it eventually,” she said. “It's okay if it takes some time. But there comes a point when you're gonna have to stop looking."

He didn’t look at her. “Sure.”

What she didn't realize was that believing Dean was dead was the easy choice. It made the most sense. It was his first instinct since they'd gone into that damn warehouse. And to fight that instinct, to still grasp on to a shred of hope that there was a way to bring Dean back, took all the energy he had.

The days passed. Charlie came and went. Sometimes she spent the night somewhere else. He didn’t ask.

He thought about what she’d told him when he ignored Chuck’s calls. In spite of himself, he could feel that her words had an effect, settled in his brain and nudged something there, something that said, _maybe, just maybe, _and, _a short one couldn’t hurt. _And finally came the point where that something was louder than the voice that called _assbutt_ and he went out to the fire escape and dialed the number.

“Hello?”

He didn’t know what to say.

“Hey, dad,” he let out.

“Castiel. Holy cow, where have you been?”

“Busy,” he said. “I’ve been busy.”

“What’s going on?” Chuck asked. “How did it work out with Dean?”

He swallowed. “Not so good.”

“Are you alright?”

There was a pause.

“Not so much.”

“It’ll get better,” said Chuck.

“I’ll figure something out,” he said in reply. He hadn’t thought it all the way through, and now he wasn’t sure he should have said it, or what his father might make of it.

“Castiel, what’s really going on?”

He watched the street and considered whether he should be honest. “He was just one of those people,” he said finally, and his tone was flat, a blank page, not giving away a thing.

One of those people, that when they go away, they leave the people behind them in pieces. Like a tiny, tiny hole in the universe, just because of the way they were, just because of the way they smiled.

He didn’t know how much of that Chuck got from his words. For all he cared, his father could take his opinions on whether he should or shouldn’t move on and shove them up an elephant’s trunk.

Chuck’s words were strange, if not disapproving. “Maybe,” he said, “Things would have been better for everyone if this whole thing had just never happened.”

Castiel didn’t understand this. He didn’t understand this _maybe_. But he thought that – maybe – for the first time, his father was starting to remember what being a human felt like. And here Castiel had thought he’d forgotten.

He ended the call and went back inside. Charlie turned to look at him while putting her coat on. One look at his expression and she asked,

“Need a hug?”

What a strange person, with her strange ideas about phone calls and hugs. He hadn’t shaken someone’s hand in months, not to talk about a hug.

“Couldn’t hurt,” he let out, though, he wondered whether it could. Charlie crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his neck like they were best friends. It felt weird. He tried to do the same without it feeling like he thought it felt weird.

“I think I’m going to go to sleep now,” he said a little stiffly. Showing affection was never really his thing.

It was only when she pulled away that Castiel looked down and asked, “Are you going out?”

She glanced down at her coat. “I could stay, if you want.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.” His tone regained some of its dryness.

"Sure you don't," she said, and shrugged. “How about an emotional support lesbian?”

“I think I’ll just go with sleep.”

Charlie left, and he got into bed feeling like a traitor. Feeling like a traitor for even considering it.

Was this something he needed to start thinking about? Moving on?

For the past third of a year, every passing month felt like a decade, and he'd been fighting with all he had to keep Dean alive in his head. How was he supposed to give up now? How was he supposed to let go? To stop fighting all his instincts, to give in to the easy choice, to let dean die for good?

He woke up to the sound of a key grazing the lock. Charlie. He rolled around in bed and pulled his blanket up.

But Charlie didn’t graze her key like that, and, actually, this didn’t sound like grazing at all.

It sounded like someone was trying to pick the lock.

Half asleep, he pulled his blade from under his pillow and stumbled out of his bed in the dark. He stood by the door, silent, heart beating fast, waiting for the intruder – demon, vampire, goblin – to open it. And the moment they did, he slashed fast and forceful with his blade.

An arm rose from the dark to block his blow, pushing his blade back to stop its body from getting impaled. And then a voice spoke that was familiar, even more than the arm, than the grip, than the scent.

"It's me, Cas. It's just me."


	26. The Things We Left Behind

Castiel’s fingers felt for the light switch across the wall. When he found it, a scene unfolded that his brain had put together in the dark but could now finally see: his blade, held stable in his hand, pointing at a throat. And the throat being Dean's.

“Sit,” he said and pointed with his blade at the dining chairs. His voice came out shaky. He cleared his throat and shook off the sleep.

“Cas-”

“Sit,” he repeated more firmly. He took a precious, heavy moment to assess Dean’s back while he walked stiffly to the kitchen. His muscles were taut, and he was covered in grime – his clothes, his skin, his hair – as if he’d crawled his way through an ogre’s swamp before he tried to pick the lock to their house.

He sat down at a dining chair, and Castiel patted him down and laid out the contents of his pockets on the table: several knives, a gun that wasn’t his, two one-dollar bills, a crumpled receipt, and a bag of skittles.

“Where have you been?” He asked sternly, looking through the objects on the table.

“Dead,” said Dean.

That got him stumped. But he didn’t let himself look stumped. “These don’t look like the belongings of a dead person.”

“I stole them on my way over,” Dean replied. That checked out; he didn’t recognize any of the knives, or the skittles. But then again, that’s just what a demon would say.

Castiel walked over to the kitchen cabinets and took some things out, then walked back. And all the while, Dean was eyeing him with this intensity, this look that was so alert and fierce, despite his slumping shoulders, despite seeming like he hadn’t slept in days, and Castiel couldn’t help but notice the two black strings that wrapped around his neck and disappeared under his shirt and that Castiel only needed to see the vague shape of beneath the fabric to know held an amulet, and a ring.

He placed a silver pocketknife on the table. Dean let out a sigh and picked it up. He didn’t ask why it was necessary. He didn’t ask why Castiel was looking at him with caution, this reluctance to trust, to truly believe. He just opened the knife and cut a line along his palm.

Not a shifter.

Next was holy water from a bottle. Then an exorcism spell. Then a single French fry on a plate.

Dean eyed it. “Um... what,” he said.

“It’s got salt.”

“I already drank the holy water,” Dean argued.

“I’d rather be sure,” he said. “I might have given you a window spray. The bottles aren't labeled.”

Dean huffed, irritated. “I told you we need to label the stuff under the sink.”

“I've been sort of busy in the past couple of months,” Castiel retorted.

“So have I!”

He sighed, sat down beside Dean, and tried not to smile. He considered what to do next. Keep running his tests? Search until he found something incriminating, a plot hole?

Or believe?

In the meantime, Dean ate his single fry, and he looked even more sullen now that there weren’t more. He frowned at the plate.

He had his amulet. Castiel could see it through his shirt. And he looked-

He couldn’t explain it.

Like the last piece that was finally put into the puzzle. How could someone fake that? How could a monster fake it?

“Show me the ring,” Castiel asked. Dean took it off his neck and gave it, watching him softly, impossibly softly, as he examined it.

It was real. He knew it. Dean knew it too, saw it in his eyes, judging by this soft-impossibly-soft way that he was looking at him.

“So,” Dean said, and swallowed. “We good?”

“We’re good,” he answered.

And once that was settled, Dean tugged on his collar and pulled him smoothly, sweetly, into a kiss. Like nothing ever happened, like he’d never been gone at all. Same breath, same touch, same heartbeat against his.

“I missed this,” he whispered, and Castiel closed his eyes, and felt his touch, and tried to convince himself with all he had that this wasn’t some beautiful, beautiful nightmare.

Dean slept for fourteen hours straight. Earned it, too, Castiel imagined, though he didn’t know what Dean had been up to before he ended up snoring face-down into his pillow for the better part of the day. Castiel waited – waited until he woke up, took a shower, changed, had a sandwich. He tried not to stare. And finally, Dean looked up from his food to look at him from across the table.

“What?” He said with a mouthful of sandwich.

“Nothing,” said Castiel. He looked down at his laptop and tried to focus on schoolwork.

“So how’s school?” Dean asked.

“Great.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be there right now?”

“Break,” he lied curtly.

“Oh.” Dean didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Charlie’s been staying here,” he said. “She should be back soon.”

Dean watched him for a moment. “Babysitting you?”

“They’ve been taking turns.”

“Must’ve sucked,” said Dean.

“Not as much as thinking you were dead for four months,” he muttered at his laptop.

“I _was _dead.”

And there it was again – this little comment he’d tried to blow past because he didn’t know how to begin to approach it.

“So...” said Dean carefully. “Are we gonna talk about this?”

“Yes,” he said, and it was almost relief that washed over him. “Let’s talk about it.”

“Okay,” said Dean.

“Okay,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“Okay,” said Dean again, rather nervously, and swallowed. “What’s wrong?”

He leaned back in his chair. “What?”

“You’ve...” Dean’s eyes skipped along his face, up and down, and he swallowed. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? First thing you do when I walk in the door’s try to stab me, and you’ve barely said a word to me since then.”

Castiel stared at him. “The stabbing was an accident,” he said stupidly.

“It’s okay,” said Dean, his face blank.

He wondered if Dean knew, when he made this blank face, that Castiel could tell he was lying. All the way back to the days when they would sit side by side in old, stuffy classrooms, before his sister in law had been killed, back when he knew nothing about monsters – he could tell, when he would ask Dean about his weekends, or his past, and Dean’s face would go blank like this, that he was lying.

“If you got sick of waiting,” said Dean in this same dispassionate, if a little dispirited, tone. “It’s okay.”

“Sick of...?” He said thickly. “No. Holy Jesus. We’re engaged. I just wanted to give you some time. I didn’t want to push.”

“I guess we should talk about it,” said Dean, his mouth twisting at the table.

“We don’t have to,” he replied, and he was sure Dean could hear it in his voice now – the lying. He was trying to mean it; he really was. But this was almost half a year of their lives, half a year that they’d never get back, and he needed... for the least, he needed to know. What happened. Why. Something.

And Dean must’ve heard all those thoughts in his brain, or maybe he was thinking the same thing, or whatever else that brought him to the same conclusion, because he said, with his eyes on the kitchen table,

“There wasn’t anything different about that afternoon when I’d found Lilith. I don’t know what I was thinking.” His fingers followed the patterns of the wood on the table, and he focused on that, eyebrows furrowed, as if those patterns told him what to say. “Just leaving everything as is and going for it, no plan, no idea what the hell I was gonna do. So when I found her – I told her I want to cooperate, just to be able to keep track of her plan. Some bull about it being the end of the world and being sick of saving people’s asses who were gonna die twenty minutes later in a car crash because they didn’t put on their seat belt on or something. I don’t even know. But it worked.”

So, he and Bobby were right.

“First thing she did was cut me out,” Dean continued. “Out of the outside world, of my family, of you. She took my weapons and my phone. Would’ve carved my tattoo off too if I hadn’t convinced her it might be useful, for other hunters to trust me, and to be bait for monsters. So I worked with her for some time. Can’t say that was too much fun.”

“That’s when you left us a clue through the camera,” said Castiel.

“Yeah. I guess you pretty much know the rest. Though I don’t know how it would have looked on your end.”

“On my end.” He couldn’t help the bitter edge to his voice. “It was finding a shredded body, and then having to bury it.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Don't know how this would've looked if you guys'd burned me.”

“So you were really dead?” He asked. Dean nodded. “And?”

“And?”

“Did you just wake up in the ground four months later?”

Dean huffed out a humorless laugh. “With a little stop in the middle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hell,” said Dean. It hung between them, made the air thick like black syrup.

Then Dean’s eyes narrowed at him. “Don’t give me the look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I don’t really believe any of this not-natural crap you’re saying but I’ll just pretend I do to be a good partner'.”

“I don’t do that,” he said defensively. “When have I ever done that?”

“Only every time I start talking about monster stuff you haven’t seen for yourself, ever since the day I walked into your brother’s kitchen and said ‘shapeshifter’.” Dean nudged a foot at him under the table, and things almost felt normal again.

“How did you get back?” He asked.

Something lit up in Dean’s eyes – his own profound curiosity sparking up. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ve been thinking...” He sighed. “Don’t give me The Look again.” He waited until Castiel nodded to continue. “Before I left, I... I got this feeling. A hunch about this town, all the monsters who seem to be drawn here.”

“Drawn?” He asked. “I thought we thought it was a coincidence.”

“We did.” Dean leaned forward in his chair. “But, Cas, what if it isn’t? I mean, think about it. Don’t you ever wonder just… what is it with this town? Why are there so many monsters here, and why do hunters like Donna and me keep chasing them here?”

“Something’s not right,” Castiel said. Dean’s eyes were bright with urgency now.

“Yeah. And with this whole resurrection thing, I’ve been thinking... I’ve been thinking about God.”

“God?” Castiel asked flatly. He worked to untense the muscles of his shoulders.

“I know it sounds weird,” Dean said, in this _hear-me-out_ tone. “But this is all backwards, isn’t it? The high concentration of monsters in this town? And have you ever noticed the names of stores in this town? Azazel’s Party Pizza Pies, Abaddon’s, Crowley’s escape room. These are all demon names. And then, now, with the resurrection? Don’t you think that’s a little bit odd?”

He didn't know what to say. "I don't know."

“Maybe not,” said Dean, and his eyebrows furrowed.

Charlie arrived late that afternoon, storming across the room at Dean and crashing into him with such force that he was almost knocked off his chair. Castiel’s heart twisted, and he had to look away. It felt too familiar, too fresh, this overflowing uncontrollable emotion. And then came Dean’s explanations all over again.

Charlie stayed for a few more days after that. And it was probably for the best that she didn’t stay any longer, because as much as she said she wanted to stay, she couldn’t stand a moment longer with them.

“Are you always this icky?” She asked on the afternoon she was leaving, walking around the room, picking up her things and stuffing them into a bag. She threw them a look – sitting together at the dining table, Castiel’s feet resting up on a chair across the table, and Dean’s feet resting in his lap. Dean held his hand and was pressing it against his face, kissing it softly occasionally. He was doing his best to do research with one hand.

“Drop it, Charlie,” Dean said. “We haven't seen each other in months.”

She shook her head and walked into the bathroom.

“So you’re going back to school tomorrow?” Dean asked.

“Mhm.”

Dean knew that he did. He’d asked that maybe two dozen times today, as if he could brainwash Castiel into actually doing it, even though he never said he wouldn’t go.

But within himself, he could admit that it worked. He hadn’t wanted to go back. Wasn’t exactly planning on it, either. Every day that he missed just contributed to more material he had to catch up with, and the longer it was, the more impossible it seemed. But Dean's brainwash made him rethink things, mainly because he knew Dean wouldn’t leave him alone until he went back – something about this being what he actually wanted, and regretting it later if he dropped out – and also, just a little bit, because this was what he wanted, and maybe he _would_ regret it if he didn’t go back.

So what he would admit out loud was that Dean had managed to annoy him into going back to college. And what he knew with more certainty than anything else was that he wasn’t going back to his dorms. He wasn’t leaving Dean for a day, not now, whether or not Charlie called it ‘icky’ and Dean called it ‘completely unnecessary’.

“I’m just going to take the car back tonight,” he told Dean.

“What car?”

“I took my father’s car while you weren’t here.” That was the current terminology. ‘While you weren’t here’. ‘While I was out’. That was Dean’s line. He didn’t talk about what exactly happened while he was out, particularly he didn’t talk about Hell, and Castiel did his best not to ask.

Charlie emerged back from the bathroom holding her toothbrush in one hand and a shirt in the other. She threw the shirt at Dean’s face when she passed by them. “I’m a little concerned that you two are going to drown in your laundry when I’m gone.”

“We clean up,” Dean protested. He threw the shirt towards the bed. It hit the floor.

Charlie raised her eyebrows at him.

“...Cas cleans up.”

“He's spoiling you,” said Charlie.

“I've been dead!”

“Dead people can pick up after themselves,” she answered.

“No they can't, Charlie! They’re buried in a coffin and need to claw their way out.”

She ignored him and knelt down to zip her bag.

“I don't think you're spoiled,” Castiel said quietly. Dean smiled at him.

Charlie pointed at him. “Keep him,” she said to Dean. And then, with a tight hug to each of them, she was gone.

He would miss her. As he would miss Sam, and Bobby. But he would never miss the reason why they’d found themselves in this house for the first place.

Dean was standing in the middle of the room, looking at the closed door. Then he seemed to snap out of it and looked around the room.

“She was right,” he said. “It’s a mess in here.”

He kicked the clothes thrown on the floor into one pile and then grabbed a couple of knives and a gun and pulled the duffel bag from under the bed to throw them in.

“Feels weird,” he mumbled. “To just leave everything behind ‘n move on.”

Castiel walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you just shake off,” he said gently.

Dean shook his head. “I keep waiting for something to happen. For something to attack out of the blue.” Then he shook his head again, more decisively now, as if trying to kick his fears out.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean’s words raised a red flag. Something to look out for. Something vaguely disconcerting, right next to Hell and the God talk that he’d acknowledged should be worrying him but instead shoved deeper into the back and chose to ignore. Shook it off just like Dean seemed to shake his own unease.

And now Dean was looking up at him, tugging on his hand, and Castiel sat down beside him. 

“You solved the problem, though, right?” He asked, and he didn’t know why he was asking it. Why he felt the need to ask it. “You killed Lilith. So that's what matters.”

Dean hesitated. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I guess. I guess we'll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

Dean leaned in, kissed him, touched his face. He tried not to think about the implications of Dean’s words, and instead focus on the fact that Dean was here, alive and breathing, just as he wished it would be for so long, and that was all that mattered.

Driving back to his old home felt almost foreign. It was a road he knew all too well, had used to drive through several times a week back when he was in high school and his relationship felt new and exciting and full of wonder and not the deep and painful and frightening thing it had become.

Not that he would’ve done anything differently if he could have. It was just- just that loving someone more than you loved yourself was a special kind of terrifying, and losing them wasn’t something you could just shake off once they... came back to life.

Especially not with the nightmares.

Dean tossed and turned in his sleep now. he shook and screamed and woke up five or seven or eight times a night.

And all Castiel could do was watch. And not get much sleep himself.

Driving this road for the first time in months felt foreign, because it was something that was once familiar and had gone strange. Going up the stairs and knocking on the door, knocking twice – knocking a third time – and finally, seeing his father on the other side.

“Hi,” said Chuck, in this tone that was surprised-before-he-could-stop-it-from-sounding-surprised.

Castiel took in his dirty striped robe and the black bags under his eyes. He peeked above his father’s head, at the inside of the house. It didn’t look good. There were papers everywhere – notepad pages, post it notes, napkins – on the tables, and on the floor, and on the walls and windows. All filled with words. There must have been tens of thousands of words showcased on the first floor.

“Are you here because of your brother?” His father asked, and Castiel’s eyes settled on him again, somewhat uneasily.

“No,” he said. Which brother? “I came to give back the car.”

“Oh,” said Chuck. “Of course. Yeah. Come in.”

“Actually.” He took a nervous glance inside. “I was hoping for a ride back.”

Chuck stared at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just... I should probably get back home.”

Chuck shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “The bus would probably be faster,” he said.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah. Yeah...” Chuck glanced back into the house. “Let’s make it quick. I have other plans.”

He was acting so odd that Castiel didn’t even think to apologize for disrupting his plans. He handed his father the keys and followed him back to the car.

“How have you been?” He asked carefully when they started driving. Chuck nodded unconvincingly. Another moment passed.

“So which brother were you-” he started, but then something happened. Something small. They took a turn, and the car wobbled. Shifted a little.

He looked at his father, harsh now. “Are you drunk?” he asked quietly.

Chuck glanced at him from behind the wheel. “What?”

“Are you-”

“Of course not. Why would you say that?” He was quiet for a long moment, pursing his lips. Then he said, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

“What?”

"There's no guide book on how to say this..." Chuck glanced at him from behind the wheel. “Well,” he said. “Basically... I’m God.”

Castiel looked at him. “What?”

“Yeah. Look, I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long-”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m fine,” said Chuck. “Just hear me out, okay?”

“No.” He shook his head. “No. You’re making this up.”

“Listen to me,” Chuck said urgently. “You can’t tell anyone. Not Dean, especially not your siblings. They wouldn't believe you.”

He wasn’t in his right mind, and the evidence wasn’t just in his words.

The car wasn’t stable. It tipped toward the railing and back, not quite wildly enough to be dangerous, but enough for Castiel to put an end to this before it started.

“Stop the car,” he said.

“Alright,” said Chuck. “So I had a couple of drinks. But I’m fine. Don’t be overdramatic.”

“Stop the car,” he repeated. He didn’t feel overdramatic. His voice was still quiet, and low, and stern.

Chuck looked at him. “I’m not-” But someone honked in front of them, and he looked back at the road just in time to brake so abruptly it threw Castiel against his seat belt.

The car stilled, inches from the car standing in a red light before them. The driver at the front car poked his hand out the window and made a rude gesture.

“Switch,” said Castiel quietly. “Now.” His father looked at him, and nodded.

He stepped out of the car, waiting for his father to get out as well. And in that fraction of a moment before he did, a light flashed behind them.

He’d been in hospitals before, but never like this. Never so lost, so confused, drowning in a crowd of passing nurses and patients like a child abandoned at the supermarket.

The tests were a blur. His thoughts were thick as tar. They checked his blood and his pulse and his sight and his memory.

“No concussion,” they said. And he managed stiffly, out of a dream,

“I wasn’t.” The rest died on his tongue.

“What’s that?” Asked the nurse who was checking him.

“I wasn’t in the car.”

“I know,” said the nurse. Her tone was sympathetic. “Still, you were right next to the car when the truck hit it. You're lucky the angle left you untouched." She smiled at him. "Almost a miracle." She looked through some papers. “You're all right. Just a little shocked.” She didn’t look much older than him.

“Where’s my father?”

Her eyes skipped to the floor.

This was the ugly part. He could tell by that look. He could tell.

“He was taken to an emergency surgery,” the nurse said gently. She might have mentioned her name earlier. He couldn’t remember.

“Where?”

She touched his shoulder. “I’d recommend that you stay here until a doctor can see you.”

He couldn’t feel his hands. He couldn’t feel anything but the hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to see a doctor.”

She looked him up and down, lips pursed. “Let me check where they took him.”

She took him all the way to the fifth floor and sat him down in a chair. Maybe she thought he would get lost on his own. He looked around when she left – it was a big room with four beds against each wall and curtains around each bed. The space where his father’s bed should be was empty.

His mind was beginning to clear. He knew, because he was starting to wonder where his phone was.

He found it in his pocket. He tried to phrase a message to Dean.

_Car crash on the way home. In the hospital. _He read it again. Then added, _Don’t worry._

It didn’t take long before he saw his father being rolled on a bed into the room, unconscious. Dean burst through the doors some time after.

“What’s going on?” He asked. His voice was rattled, hair was mussed from wind.

“Waiting for the doctor,” said Castiel.

“Are you alright?” Dean’s eyes roamed over his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I told you not to worry.”

Dean grimaced. “That’s what you say when you want people to worry, Cas.”

“I didn’t know that.”

He couldn’t look at the bed for too long. His father looked old like this, with his head limp on the pillow, much older than he had this morning. And a little frightening with this grayness to his skin, like the life had been knocked out of him. “He just got out of surgery. It should take a couple of hours until a doctor checks on him again. Then we’ll know more.” For the most part, he was reciting the nurses’ words. He didn’t know what _more _was.

He looked away from the bed. Dean reached out a hand and touched his face, and there was gentle worry in his eyes.

The touch stung his face, and it took him a moment to realize Dean wasn’t just being weird. His skin was scraped.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled. Dean’s face twisted. “Really.”

“I could stay here,” said Dean, looking extremely reluctant to do so. “If you want a break...”

“No.” He looked over at his father. “I think I just need a cup of coffee.” Or maybe something stronger.

“I’ll go get some,” said Dean. “Have you called your siblings?”

His expression went blank. “Just going to,” he said, and tried to sound like he hadn’t forgotten he should call them. “Wait,” he said when Dean started to walk away.

Dean turned around.

“I think there's something I should tell you,” he let out before he could stop himself.

He just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lie to Dean. He couldn’t hide things from him, not even if it was literally his father’s last wish for him not to tell. He...

Gosh darn it.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

He shook his head. “I love you.”

“Aw.” Dean smiled and squeezed his hand. “I’m gonna get you some coffee before you say that to a nurse. Or a vending machine.”

Dean left, and he sat down by the bed. He touched his father’s hand.

“Wake up,” he said.

Nothing.

Rude.

One thing bothered him about their conversation right before the accident. One thing in particular that made it harder to dismiss the whole thing. Why did chuck tell him not to tell Dean? He knew Dean was missing, even encouraged Castiel to forget about him. So why did he imply that Dean was suddenly back, or that he was about to be back?

And there were other things, further back. Things he couldn’t ignore after what Chuck had told him; his obsession with religion and with creating new worlds in his mind. His insistence that Castiel could move on when Dean went missing, and when he refused to move on, Dean suddenly being back, talking about God... 

But these could all be just normal weird father things. Maybe he just wanted to believe that after taking care of his father for so long, they had trust going on between them, and Chuck might confide in him with something he didn’t trust anyone else with. Maybe he told Castiel because he had a feeling about what he and Dean were doing, the things they were hunting, the things they knew, and he knew Castiel might believe him while no one else would.

Or maybe he was just an old nut.

No way to tell, unless his father woke up.

He called Balthazar, but there was no answer. He tried Luci; his phone was disconnected. He gritted his teeth, and dialed Michael’s number.

“What do you want?” Michael answered. His tone brought the events of their last conversation forcefully back: Chuck’s dinner, his older siblings’ collective decision that Dean and him shouldn’t be together, then announcing that they were about to get married.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

“I know about Luci,” said Michael. “I’m hanging up.”

“Luci?” Castiel stopped him. “What about him?”

Michael paused. “You haven’t heard?” he asked. “I’m surprised. Father made sure we were all informed, and that we all felt bad enough about it, too.”

“What happened?”

“He disappeared. Went home from work four months ago and never showed up the next morning. No one’s seen him since. I’m assuming he’s rotting in some ditch.”

“Four months?” Castiel's voice rose. “Why did no one tell me?”

“The old man made such a fuss of it,” Michael ignored him. “I’ll never understand how that good-for-nothing was his favorite. Well, that spot’s vacant now.”

He watched his father lying unconscious on the bed. “We got in a car crash,” he said. “Father was inside the car. We’re in the hospital now.”

“And?”

“I thought someone might want to visit. It’s pretty serious.” He didn’t know why his tone sounded so defensive.

“He’ll walk it off,” said Michael. “Next time something happens, ask someone else to call.” And he hung up.

Castiel put his phone down and stared at the bed. He touched his ring absentmindedly. The whole conversation felt surreal.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” said Dean. “What’s up.”

“Never calling my brother again...” he muttered, and looked up. “What’s this?” Dean wasn’t holding coffee. He was holding a baby. A human baby.

“You wouldn’t believe this, okay?” said Dean. “This woman came up to me and started talking to me about her husband thinking he's an angel and then she said ‘hold this’ and just gave her to me. Said she had to find her husband and just disappeared.”

“That is weird.” Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed. “Do you think there’s something not-natural going on?”

“I dunno,” said Dean. “She kept talking about angels and her husband going crazy. This one might just be natural.” The child grabbed a handful of Dean’s hair and pulled, but he didn’t seem to be bothered. “I have to find her, though. I mean, soon this child will need food and... stuff.” He wrinkled his nose at the diaper area. “Would you mind if I went and looked for her parents?”

“Sure,” said Castiel. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Dean looked at him hesitantly without moving.

“What?”

“Would you mind watching over her until I come back? It’s much harder to pretend to be a nurse and hack into a computer while carrying a friendly baby.”

Castiel looked at the child. “Sure,” he said unwillingly. He took her from Dean’s arms, grabbing her by the armpits, a foot away from his body. Dean grimaced at him.

“What? I’m holding her.”

“She’s a baby, not a bomb,” Dean said. “Just hold her like you’d hold a football.”

“This is how I’d hold a football,” he muttered.

Dean left, and he sat down with the child. She squirmed in his arms.

She couldn’t be over a year and a half old; she didn’t seem to be able to say much. Her blond hair crowned her little head and she wiggled in his lap until she had access to his hair. What was with kids and trying to turn people bald?

They sat for a while, Castiel praying the child won’t poop or start crying, and her not seeming to be concerned about his emotional state whatsoever.

When the doctor showed up, she gave the kid a look and said: “Are you a relative of Mr. Shurley’s?”

“I’m his son,” he answered.

“Is there anywhere you could leave your child while we talk?” She asked. “I’d like to have your full attention.”

Her words made his stomach sink. He looked around for Dean.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know where my fiancé is.” And now he’d made it sound like this was his child, which it wasn’t. He supposed though, for the moment, they were in it together.

“Well,” said the doctor. “I’ve reviewed your father’s test results and his status after the surgery. Your father was an alcoholic,” she said, as though to confirm.

“Yes.”

“He has liver failure.” She looked him in the eye when she said this. “I’m sorry, but the accident made it much harder for his body to recover from everything at once. There’s always a chance for a miracle, but it doesn’t seem good.”

He swallowed thickly. “How long?”

“Hours,” said the doctor.

She left him there with a baby in his lap and a dying father. He couldn’t do much but stare at the hospital bed numbly. The kid pulled at his hair.

“It’ll be okay,” he mumbled and patted her back reassuringly. She squeed. “It’ll be okay.”

Dean read it on his face the moment he was back.

“Gimme,” he said, reaching for the baby.

“It’s okay,” Castiel said. He tried not to sound sad, but he didn’t think he was fooling anyone. Maybe the kid. Not Dean. “Did you find her parents?”

“No,” said Dean. “But I found her.”

“I don’t understand.”

“On the hospital records. She was born here. Sixteen months ago. Her name is Claire Novak. And I can’t find her parents anywhere.” He furrowed his eyebrows at the child. “So I guess we’ll have to find something to do with her.”

“Let’s google social services.”

Dean stepped closer and lowered his voice. “What if we... kept her?”

“Kept her?” Castiel said flatly.

“Her parents just disappeared. What if something not-natural is happening? She could be in danger.”

“Or they could have just abandoned her. We don’t know.”

“Exactly,” Dean said. “We don’t know. We can’t let her go before we find out what’s up.”

“Dean, we can’t just claim a child.”

“We’re hunters! We can do whatever we want if it’s for someone’s safety.”

“This logic is dangerous.”

Dean huffed. “Okay. Let me take her to find something to eat downstairs or she’s gonna start crying soon. Then I can keep looking for her parents as long as we’re here. But this kid ain’t leaving here with a social worker.”

“Fine,” he said. And just then, as Dean turned to leave, the room went black.

“What’s happening?” asked Dean. The baby started crying. “Cas?”

He felt a hand on his arm.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he said, but he moved away from Dean’s reach and felt his way to his father, taking his hand. Just in case.

It lasted about five seconds. And then the power was back on, and dozens of machines beeped around them. A nurse rushed to Chuck's bed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. And before he could ask her what she was sorry for, she disconnected the machines and took away the bed.

He felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder.

It was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.


	27. My Heart Will Go On

“The drawer won’t open.”

It was in the background. Dean’s voice, the baby playing on their floor, the cars passing by outside – it was all in the background.

His father was gone. Not just gone – dead. Not just dead – buried, rotting in the ground.

Castiel thought about his last conversation with his father. Whether he should believe it. Whether he should just dismiss it as a drunk man’s babble.

Whether he should keep it from Dean, just in case.

He opened his laptop and scrolled through a local news site, searching for something suspicious enough to distract him.

“Cas. D’you hear me? The drawer won’t open. Damn this childproof nonsense. My mom gave me a lighter for my fourth birthday and I turned out just fine.”

He tried to tune back in. One thing at a time. The dining table. His hands on it, flipping his ring. The kitchen counters, loaded with dishes.

A hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

"People keep dying around here."

"What?"

He shook his head. "Taking the child was a mistake."

Dean's face went blank, and he sank into a chair.

"We should have left it at the hospital," said Castiel. "Or given it away to social services. It shouldn't be here."

"Stop calling her 'it'. She's a kid, Cas, not a house plant."

"She's a baby," he said. He could hear the harsh edges of Dean's voice mirrored in his own. "We hijacked a baby."

"We didn't hijack nothing," Dean shot back. "Her mother gave her to me. What was I supposed to do, leave her by the vending machine with a five in her pocket?"

"I don't know. Maybe not take a baby that's not yours?" He asked, and he was raising his voice now. Dean looked at him wordlessly, helplessly, and then buried his head in his hands. He took a breath. Castiel tracked the wooden lines of the table with his eyes.

"You need to push in, then release the strap and pull."

Dean looked up at him. "What?"

“The drawer.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.” Dean stood up and kissed the top of his head before going for a round two against the drawer. “Watch the baby.”

He turned to watch the kid. She was making fun shapes out of salt gun bullets.

“I don’t think you should be playing with that,” he said and got up to replace the bullets with Timothy the Destroyer. An insulted crying ensued. He gave up trying to use Timothy as middleman and picked her up. She calmed down instantly. Babies were the worst form of torture.

“So who died?” Dean asked in the kitchen. “Anything we should check out?”

“Some couple at the hospital,” said Castiel. Dean was leaning against the counter and eating yogurt. When they approached, Claire craned her neck towards the container.

Dean held a spoonful in front of her. “You want some yogurt? Yeah?” She grabbed the spoon and ate it. “People die at hospitals all the time.”

“Didn’t seem very natural. Their faces were burned-”

“Can we not do this with the baby...?”

“Yeah.” Castiel put her down on the floor with the yogurt and walked back to the kitchen.

“At our hospital?” Dean asked. “What happened?”

He sat back by the computer and read from the article. “’Amelia and Jimmy Novak, 35, were both found dead this week behind the hospital parking lot’-”

“Novak?” Dean stopped him. “Aren’t those...” They both turned to look at the kid.

“’Their eyes were burned to a crisp in an unexplained attack’,” Castiel kept reading, more quietly. Dean walked over and looked at the screen behind his shoulder. “’The cause of death is still unclear’.” He scrolled down to a picture. The area around the bodies’ eyes was completely black. “What does that?”

“I don’t know,” said Dean. “But it sure as hell doesn’t look natural. Do you think we should-”

“Did you hear that?” Castiel cut him off.

“What?”

“I think she just farted.”

“That's her poop face,” said Dean. “She's pooping. Oh, God. Get a diaper.” He knelt down to grab the baby. “Do you think we should handle it?”

“We probably should," said Castiel. "You can’t hit snooze on a pooping baby. Can you? I’ve never tried.”

“I meant the parents’ case, Cas.”

“Oh. Yeah. I’ll handle it. You handle the poop."

"Of course I'm the one who has to handle the poop," Dean muttered when they heard a knock on the door.

They looked at each other.

“Are we expecting anyone?”

Dean shook his head and nodded his head toward the nearest knife.

Castiel grabbed the knife and approached the door. There was another knock.

He got to the door and silently looked through the peephole.

He let out a surprised huff, then, and unclenched his fingers around the knife.

“Who is it?” Dean asked. He only sent a confused look in Dean’s way and opened the door.

On the other side was his college roommate.

“What are you doing here?” Was Castiel’s greeting, slow, perplexed. Garth stared at him, eyes wide, as though he was just as surprised to see Castiel as Castiel was to see him. His clothes were splashed and spattered with blood, Castiel was now realizing, when he was looking down from Garth’s face.

“Bobby Singer sent me,” said Garth, slow and perplexed in his own way. Trying to work something out in his brain, it seemed, just as Castiel was. “Emergency contact. For emergencies.” His attention was drawn away, then, by Dean who came to stand at the door, holding Claire. “Hey. You’re not broken up,” he said. “Or dead. Or in prison. I guess no one wins the bet.”

“Excuse me?” said Dean, but then Garth’s eyes fell on the child.

“So this is what you’ve been busy doing.”

“What?” Castiel followed his eyes. “No. No, no. This is temporary.”

“Or not.” Dean shrugged. There was an edge to his voice. “Whatever.”

Garth’s eyes jumped between them. He was clutching his side a little too tightly.

“How much of that blood is yours?” Castiel asked.

“Not all of it.” Garth brought up a hand for a bloody thumbs-up, and Castiel moved for him to enter. “So you guys are hunters?” Garth asked, sitting down a little too heavy on a dining chair. Castiel went to the bathroom and collected some bandages and an antiseptic.

“Small world, I guess,” he heard Garth say.

“Where’s all this blood from?” Dean asked as Castiel was returning to the kitchen with the bandages.

“Just a routine werewolf hunt,” Garth said. “Sliced myself with my own knife in the process. You mind if I clean it up in the bathroom? Looks pretty nasty.”

“Sure,” said Dean and pointed in the direction of the bathroom. “What’s up?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing, once Garth was gone.

"What do you mean?"

"He shows up at our house with a mysterious injury he won't let us see?" said Dean. He grabbed Claire to change her diaper.

"Emergency contact," said Castiel, as if this solved the issue, although his forehead was creased and he was struggling to wrap his mind around the idea of a guy he'd lived with for months being a hunter.

“Hey, guys?” said Garth from the bathroom. There was a faint _ow_ and then, “Have you gotten married yet?”

“No,” Castiel called back. There were a couple of more _ow_s, and then the door opened.

“Then it’s perfect!” said Garth with a grin.

Castiel and Dean eyed one another.

“I don’t understand.”

“I can marry you,” said Garth. “Yeah, I got ordained online and all. It could be my first hunters’ wedding!”

“I don’t think that’s a thing,” said Castiel, though what he really wanted to say was, ‘how many weddings have you done?’ And also, ‘after having shared a room with you for half a year, do I not know you at all?’ Though, there he was, in his hunters’ house with his hunter fiancé and their adopted orphan baby that had definitely not been there the last time he even thought about Garth, and he could only imagine that Garth was thinking the same thing.

“Yeah, I think there’s just hunters’ funerals,” said Dean.

“First time for everything.” Garth raised his eyebrows.

“I guess...” Castiel started, but Dean cleared his throat and pulled him aside.

“We aren’t going to have a werewolf officiate our wedding,” he whispered sternly.

“What are you talking about? He’s not a werewolf. He’s my roommate.”

“You heard him,” Dean hissed. “He went into a werewolf hunt. Things got messy. He got bitten in the process. Then he showed up bloody on our door, and now he’s asking to marry us.”

Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed. “Where’s his process?”

“What? No, Cas...”

“Pretty small house,” Garth called from the other side of the room. “I can hear you, guys.”

Castiel lowered his voice. “I trust him. He’s one of my best – and only – friends.”

Dean leaned in. “Why should _I_ trust him?”

“Because he’s a hunter,” Castiel offered.

“We are not doing this.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest.

Five minutes later, Garth was leaving their house with his big goofy grin on his face, saying, “I’ll see you guys at the wedding!”

“I’m not loving this,” said Dean when he closed the door.

“It can’t hurt,” said Castiel.

“I guess we’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

They both looked at Claire, then.

She was an issue they didn’t want to resolve, but neither of them could ignore, either.

A decision was never quite made. It was a “sitting on the egg until the hen came back and took it” kind of situation. He was pretty sure that was how the saying went.

The first problem was that Dean was getting attached. It was all the little things: the furrow between his eyebrows that appeared whenever the girl frowned. His unaware smile when she did things like shove a finger up her nose and dig up a piece of snot or slam a toy against her head, whine weakly and then slam it again. And his absolute devotion to all the hardest things; change diapers. Stay up for hours every night until the screaming stopped. Flu shots.

The second problem was that Castiel was getting attached.

It was just one thing for him: this was a human. A real, baby little human that ate and pooped and when you tickled the soles of her feet, she laughed.

And so, a decision was made, but it wasn’t made in the sense that it was decided. It was made in the sense that during drives to the supermarket the shopping list was gradually taken over by baby things. It was made at four a.m. when neither of them had slept for a week and still they were both up and desperately trying to calm the baby down. It was made within the shift of all those things, bit by bit, and before they could realize things were shifting, it had already been done, and it could not be undone: they were not giving this girl away.

At night, while he was trying to fall asleep, he heard Dean’s voice out of the dark.

“Cas?”

He didn’t answer. Claire was soundly asleep in her crib between the bed and the window, and he watched her little chest rise and fall. He’d gotten used to doing that at nights. He was pretty sure babies didn’t work that way, but there didn’t seem to be any guarantee that she wouldn’t just stop breathing at any random moment.

Dean touched his shoulder. “Are you awake?”

“No.”

“I can't sleep,” Dean said.

“So you've decided I shouldn't, either?”

There was a shift on the bed behind him, and he knew the movement well enough to know Dean was propping himself up on his elbow. “I’m scared.”

That got his attention. He rolled over to face Dean in the dark. “Why?”

“We don’t know the first thing about parenting,” he let out in what was almost despair. “I mean, how are we gonna raise a kid? A whole kid? Not to talk about a teenager...”

“Whoa,” said Castiel. “We aren’t quite there yet.”

“I know.” Dean sighed. “It’s just – I’m starting to wonder whether we can actually do this.”

Dean’s eyes glinted anxiously in the dark, and it was clear that these words took great energy out of him. This was the first time he’d shown insecurity in the Claire business, and he was scared Castiel would snatch the opportunity to make the decision for them that Dean thought he’d wanted to make. The decision that he himself felt responsibility to make.

He didn’t really want things to come to this; because, well, if Dean was getting honest about things, then he had plenty of honesty to share, himself.

“We're hunters,” he said, slow and gentle, no harsh edges in his tone. “What kind of a life is that? We come from two broken families. Our kid wouldn't even have any grandparents. We're very likely going to die on a job and even if we don't, what kind of normal could a kid have with two hunter parents?”

This sent Dean into his old routine. His jaw tightened, eyebrows pulling together. “My parents were hunters.”

“Just proving my point,” Castiel noted. “We're twenty, and you're right, we don't know anything about children, nor are we ready financially or mentally to have a child.”

He was being harsh, now, and he knew it. He didn’t feel anymore like he was in a tiny apartment, lying so close to Dean that he could feel it when he breathed. He felt like he was somewhere cold.

He was afraid of what might happen if he didn’t insist they should give her away. And he was most afraid that he was past that point – Dean was clearly past that point – and that if time came to give her away, he wouldn’t be able to.

“Cas...” said Dean. “If we give this kid to the authorities, she's gonna spend the rest of her life in orphanages.”

“She might find a good family,” Castiel argued.

“Or she might not. Sure, we may be awful parents. But at least if she stays with us she'll have a family,” said Dean. “The kid deserves a family. We're responsible for her now. And when she grows up, we're gonna be able to give her answers about what really happened to her parents. No one else will be able to do that.”

He pursed his lips hard, if only to let Dean know he was dissatisfied. “Do you really think we're ready?” He asked.

“It doesn't matter if we're ready,” said Dean. “Life doesn't ask you whether you're ready. It throws shit at your face and you just have to deal with it. This girl isn't ready to be an orphan. I wasn't ready at four. You weren't ready at twenty.”

He didn’t say anything to that.

“Shit happens,” said Dean. “The only thing we can do about it is do something about it, you know?”

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling and didn't say anything at all in response. His hand moving to touch Dean's was the only indication of what was going on in his head. And by the time he came up with something to say, Dean was fast asleep, snoring like a true parent beside him, while he was wide awake.

* * *

Everyone gathered round at the beach on a warm June afternoon: Bobby and Sam and Charlie, Gabriel and Balthazar, and Meg and Garth. A collection of people Castiel didn’t really know how to put together, although it might not have been as hard as he had anticipated. Garth knew both Bobby and Meg, and Balthazar and Gabriel were already hitting it off with awe-struck Sam. Charlie and Sam had insisted that they meet at the beach, even though Castiel thought it was tacky and Dean thought it was cheesy, and that despite the beach, it should be a black tie event, although Castiel found it excessive, and Dean found it uncomfortable. 

It was a small event. Ten people. Gabriel called it sad. Garth started saying ‘hunters’ wedding’, but Castiel stopped him promptly and shot a look at his brothers and at Meg.

Dean took Claire to the edge of the water and showed her the waves while she said “Wah” over and over again. Castiel watched them with his hands in his pockets from the side of the road. He forgot the people around him and the ceremony that was about to begin. The sound of cars passing behind him faded. The sea was a whitish green that tickled Claire’s toes. Dean’s face was deeply focused as he was explaining something to her.

Someone came to stand beside him. “Hey.”

“Hey, Meg."

“So. Marriage and stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you nervous?”

“I guess.” He glanced at Dean. He didn't feel nervous; he felt a little grateful, and a little lucky.

A car honked behind them, and he looked back just in time to see it swerve sharply towards them to cut the car before it.

He grabbed Meg’s shoulder and pushed her away. The car passed close enough for them to feel the blast of wind that came with it.

“Dude,” said Meg, wary criticism mixed into her voice. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” His voice sounded normal. His heart was beating fast. Meg glanced back at the road.

“They didn’t even drive off the road,” she said.

They didn’t even drive off the road.

He tried to get the sound of metal screeching out of his head. The look of his father’s car being crumpled like paper.

Why was this happening? They didn’t even drive off the road.

“Second year of college, huh?” Said Meg, and he knew she was trying to change the subject, because the next semester wasn’t starting for another three months.

“Susme,” he said.

“What?”

“Excuse me.” He started walking – he didn’t know where.

It wasn’t... It wasn’t a thing. He just needed to be somewhere quiet.

He found quiet in a small, empty cell that was called ‘showers’ but was really a square with tiles and a shower head close to the ceiling. It wasn’t silence: he could still hear the waves outside. But it was quiet.

He knew if someone could see him now he would look like an apathetic douchebag, but he grabbed his phone and started scrolling.

He just needed to get the pictures out of his head. 

Something went on outside. He heard Dean say, “Can you hold her?” And Gabriel say, “What’s his deal?” And then Dean say, “We’ve had a lot to deal with lately. His dad just died” – followed by a beat of silence, and then – “I mean, your dad. Just give me a minute.”

Footsteps, and then Dean at the door.

"It's nothing," said Castiel in an already-apologetic voice. 

Dean walked over and leaned against the wall beside him. 

"S'up," he said.

"S'up," Castiel tried to imitate him, dipping his head forward a little bit. 

"What happened back there?"

"Some car," he said. He didn't feel like saying anything else. And from Dean's look it seemed like he didn't need to, either. "It's nothing."

Dean pursed his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared into the empty room. He pursed some more. Then he said, 

"Let's play Honest."

"I don't know what that is."

"That's because I just made it up," said Dean. "Secrets in turns. No rules. Go."

Castiel's eyebrows furrowed warily.

"I mean, what time is better to play this than right before getting married?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "Come on. Be a pal."

"Fine," he let out, and tried not to let show how much, in this very moment out of all the moments, he was thankful for his fiancé. "You go first."

Dean thought for a moment – or maybe just prepared himself. “My nightmares have been getting worse,” he said. “Not better. Okay, your turn.”

“I don’t get to react?”

“Nope,” said Dean.

“You said no rules,” he argued. “So I’m-”

“One rule.”

He huffed.

“Come on,” said Dean. “Hit me.”

“My worst fear,” Castiel started, and for a moment he couldn’t continue. “My worst fear is everyone I love dying. And now that it came true, I don’t know what to do with myself.” He couldn’t look at Dean when he said it. He stared straight ahead. “Your turn.”

“I wanna move,” Dean said quietly.

Castiel looked around them. “Yeah, it’s pretty gross here.”

“No, like, move houses,” said Dean. “Our place is a dump. It’s not a space to raise a child in.”

“What’s a space to raise a child in?” Castiel asked defensively. He liked their place. No – he really loved it. To him it meant first kisses and sobriety and safety and a bed that was shitty but it was always warm.

And now he saw it. To Dean, it was struggle. It was grief and a fight for survival and loneliness in a new town.

“I dunno,” Dean was saying. “Somewhere she can run around. Somewhere she could actually have a room of her own. Somewhere that has a couch.”

“I guess our place is a dump,” said Castiel.

“Kind of is,” Dean smiled. “Look, all I’m saying is, we could die tomorrow,” he said. “Or we could live for sixty years.”

“Probably not.”

“Well, six years,” Dean said. “And whichever it is, it would have been stupid not to take advantage of our time.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“So, are we good? ‘Cause no one’s entered here and I haven’t heard any voices from outside, so I think they might’ve left without us.”

"We're good."

Outside the bathrooms, Bobby was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching the sea.

“You coming?” Dean asked when they passed by him. Bobby joined them walking.

“Getting married with this thing, eh?” he asked and nodded at the amulet around Dean’s neck.

“Yeah.”

“I found something about it while you were gone, actually,” said Bobby. “Couple of sources say it starts glowing around God. Saying he’s the only one who can turn it off, too. That ever happen to you?”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed at the sand. “Yeah. Twice.”

Castiel eyed him.

“What do you think?” Dean asked him.

“Uhhhhhhhhh. Probably false,” he said.

Dean looked at him questioningly.

“I mean – do you really think we would have been around God and not known it?” He tried to sound doubtful rather than extremely nervous.

“I guess not,” said Dean, frowning, unsure, and Castiel could breathe normally again.

Everyone gathered in front of the sea. Garth brought his hands together and started,

“We are gathered here today to watch two people become from man and man – to man and man.”

Dean leaned in. “This isn’t how this is supposed to go, is it?”

“No,” Castiel whispered.

“Shush,” said Garth. “Now, for the vows.”

“There’s a whole bunch of other-”

“The vows,” Garth exclaimed.

“Not it,” Castiel blurted. He could only imagine Dean’s slightly clenched jaw was saying, _I regret ever having taught you that_.

“Alright.” Dean cleared his throat and looked into his eyes. “I've spent months trying to find what to say, and I came up empty. 'Cause what we've got is not the kind of thing I can sum up on a page to read in front of six other people, a baby and a...” He glanced over to his right. “Garth. But it can be summed up in the way you touch my arm when you see I'm worried and you don't have to speak for me to know you want me to say what's bothering me. It can be summed up in the cup of coffee you leave on my nightstand before you leave the house when I'm too tired to get up in the morning. It doesn't show in your words – not often – because you don't do that,” he smiled softly. “It shows in every single thing you do, instead, ‘cause you’re an actions-over-words kind of guy.”

“I'm not sure that's a good thing,” said Castiel.

“Maybe not for other people,” said Dean. “But I can't – and God knows I've tried before – I can't think of anyone who would fit me better.” The look in his eyes was so intense that Castiel thought he might cry. Then he said, “Okee, your turn.”

“Do I have to?”

“If I had to,” said Dean, “You have to.”

He gave himself a moment. Words were always hard for him; not to talk about such intimate words, in front of six other people and a baby and Garth.

“When we first met,” he started, “I wasn't looking. I didn't want anything to do with you. And when we got to know each other, it became very clear very quickly that this was different. This wasn't something I was just going to forget about after a couple of months, or a couple of years. When I fell in love with you... it felt like a stroke of luck. And when you went missing, it was like our luck had run out. Everyone was telling me, ‘you have to get used to this. You have to accept that he's gone’. But there was this huge part of me that thought, _finally_. For so long I'd been waiting for something to go wrong, and finally, the worst has happened. I don't have to worry anymore that my world will collapse, because it already has. There was a sort of safety in that. It took everything I had just to...” _just to keep you alive in my head, _he thought._ To not let this take over me until nothing was left_. He shook his head. “Now we're here, and it might be tempting fate, but I feel like there's nothing we can't take over because we've pretty much been through every worst case scenario possible.”

“Don't jinx us, man.”

He could not believe his luck. And maybe it wasn’t luck. He would never say this to Dean – but maybe this was fate.

He shook his head again. “Actions over words, huh?” And then he grabbed Dean by the collar and kissed him.

“You... may kiss the groom,” Garth mumbled. “When you, uh, disconnect, you can take those rings off your dirty shoelaces and put them on your fingers.”

_If Meg were here, _he thought to himself, _she’d say, ‘lame. Don’t be saps.’ _And then he remembered she was there, and looked over.

She didn’t say ‘lame’. She was just smiling.

Beside her, Charlie and Sam were crying. He thought he could even see a glint in Bobby’s eyes.

Next to him, Dean said, “Don’t be saps, you guys.”

“Is it on? You need to make sure it’s on.”

“I don’t know. Did you turn it on?”

“Yes, I turned it on.”

“Then it’s on, Dean.”

“You don’t need to be an ass about it.”

“Oh, I’m an-?”

“Wah.”

“Look who’s up. Happy birthday, you little snail. Say how old you are!”

“Wah.”

“Dean, she just woke up. You know she’s cranky when she wakes up.”

“Yeah, I wonder where she gets that from. Say how old you are, Claire.”

“Two.”

“That’s right! She’s a genius. Cas, our kid is a genius.”

“Every two year old can say ‘two’.”

“Here’s a picture of your parents that I stole from the hospital records, Claire. Can you say mama?”

“Ma.”

“Can you say mama?”

“Dean, she can...”

“Ma.”

“Yes. Ma-ma.”

“Mayonnaise.”

“Don’t sigh like this. She’ll think you think she’s stupid.”

“Would you stop pointing the camera at me? Point it at her.”

“I’ll stop the moment you comb your hair. She’ll want to see how big of a slob you were when you were her age.”

“Shut up. This is stupid. She’s gonna be so edgy and cool when she’s eighteen, she’s not gonna wanna see her parents acting like idiots every year in front of a camera. Claire, say hi to the camera, baby.”

“Poo.”

“Except, if we film this on every birthday until her eighteenth, it’s gonna be, like, ten hours of footage.”

“Ten hours of her development through sixteen years and all her friends and family members.”

“You hear that, Claire? He just said he’s gonna embarrass you in front of all your friends when you’re older. You’re gonna hate us when you grow up, huh? No- don’t spit up. Ugh.”

“Dean. Look at me.”

“What?”

“You have baby barf on your face. I just wanted to get that on camera.”

“You asshole. I’m-”

“No cursing in front of the baby. Now, can we start?”

“What have we been doing so far?”

“You need to narrate.”

“Why is it my job to narrate?”

“Because I’m filming.”

“Ugh. Fine. Come on, Claire- there ya go. This is your first day as a two year old, which is very exciting for you, and very unfortunate for us. It’s January thirty-first, which means we’ve had you for about eight months now and you’re still alive. So, I count that as a win. Okay, what else?”

“The house.”

“Oh, yeah. Look around you. Look... Cas, turn the camera. Look at this old dump. This is where you used to live when you were a baby. Isn’t that nuts? Not as much as me talking to a future version of you. Take a good look at this place, ‘cause by the time you’re three it’ll be long gone, just like us, probably, by the time you watch this.”

“Dean.”

“What? In sixteen years we’ll be over thirty-five. That’s like eighty for a hunter. Claire, if you’re watching this and I’m gone, I want you to leave a cheeseburger on my grave the next time you visit.”

“Alright, I’m shutting the camera off before you make the baby cry.”

“No, don’t... C’mere. Over here. Right, now you can see all of us. Happy birthday, Claire. Look at how cute you used to look. You probably don’t even like saying ‘poo’ now, but you did it all the time when you were a baby. What? Cas, why are you looking at us like that?”

“Nothing."

"What is it?"

"It's just weird. We're a family."

"Hear that, Claire? This guy's been shopping for diapers for almost a year and now he starts to feel like a family. There's Cas for you."

"No need to be mean about it."

"It's said with love, Cas."

"Doesn't sound like love."

"It's love, dumbass. It's real love."


	28. Bedtime Stories

Somehow, the no-bedroom apartment looked even smaller when it was empty.

It always seemed to Castiel that it would be the other way around; that without all the furniture, the space would look bigger. But it didn’t. It looked small, and dirty, and a little bit different, without the furniture, from the place that he loved.

And still he didn’t want to let it go.

“Come on,” said Dean and patted his shoulder. “Let’s go.” He took the key off his key chain and handed it to Meg.

It was kind of weird. Castiel had thought she was kidding him when he told her Dean and him were moving and she asked if she could take a look at their old apartment. But she wasn’t. And now here they were.

Claire pulled at his leg. “Less go,” she said. “Less go.”

Meg watched her indifferently. “Cute,” she said, and didn’t seem to mean it at all.

Dean put a hand on Castiel's shoulder.

“Give me a moment,” Castiel said to him.

This house had meant so much to him for so long. He didn’t quite know how to say goodbye, except to walk away.

"You're giving up a shit apartment," said Meg. “Not waking Satan from the dead, man."

Beside her, Dean let out a nervous laughter. “Yeah, that would be crazy,” he said. Castiel eyed him. He touched the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Come on,” he said.

“See you,” said Meg.

That was the last time he ever saw the apartment.

Their new house was big and beautiful, with two floors and a front lawn in a good neighborhood. Better than either of them had imagined they could ever have, and only affordable thanks to the inheritance Chuck left behind.

Castiel hovered by the mailbox and watched the immeasurably big house with disbelief. It was theirs. Really theirs.

New house. New neighborhood. New life. Without his father, and without most of his siblings, most likely, but with a new family of his own. In two weeks Dean will turn twenty-two in this house. One week later Claire will turn three.

They both stood now at the front door and waved Castiel over.

Inside, the house was spacious and full of cardboard boxes. A wall of big windows brought natural light into the room: kitchen along the left wall, and a wide open living room taking the rest of the first floor space.

Claire waddled into the center of the room. “New home?” she asked.

“This is our new home,” said Castiel.

“This is our new home,” she repeated, picking up on his _repeat after me_ tone. “It’s eno-mous.”

Dean and him looked around with the same kind of wonder.

They took all day to unpack, and by Claire’s bedtime the kitchen was done.

“Come on,” Castiel said and pulled her away from her toys. They did the brush-change-bedtime-story routine before turning off the lights.

“Good night,” said Castiel and turned to go, playing it cool, as if Dean and him weren’t terrified of new-house anxiety resulting in a sleepless night for all of them.

“Where’s the monster?” said Claire, and his hopes crumbled.

“What monster?” he asked and turned around.

“The monster outside the window."

“Monsters aren’t real,” he said, almost out of instinct.

“Yes, they are,” Claire argued decisively.

Castiel huffed through his nose. Claire was about as stubborn as Dean and him combined. They must be the most stubborn family in history.

“No, they aren’t. Now, go to sleep. You don’t want to be tired on your first day of new kindergarten.”

“I can’t sleep.” She sniffed, crossed her arms and glared out the window.

Castiel took a look outside.

“There’s nothing there,” he said.

“I see eyes,” said Claire.

“I don’t see anything.” And he tried to sound reassuring, but it came out nervous. He couldn’t see anything but trees and darkness and the neighbors’ lights outside the window. Did children have super-vision? He’d have to ask Dean that.

Claire sniffed determinedly and looked at him as though she was about to burst out crying.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright.”

He wasn’t going to win this one. He sat down on the floor, right by her bed. “Do you want to hear a secret?”

Claire nodded, wide eyed.

“Monsters do exist," he said, and took her little hand in his own. "And some of them are very scary. But there’s no reason to be afraid, because Dean and I will always be there to scare them away. Alright?”

“How long is always?” Claire asked, and her voice was somehow calmer.

“Longer than tonight,” he dodged, realizing his mistake. He couldn’t promise always. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.” He leaned against the wall, then said, “You can’t tell anyone at kindergarten about this, because they won’t believe you.”

“Okay.”

“Or Dean,” he added with a pang of guilt.

“Okay,” said Claire, though he knew that wouldn’t last past the morning.

When he went back down, he found Dean watching the living room with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face.

“She’s down,” said Castiel.

“We forgot to buy a couch,” Dean replied.

Castiel took a look at the living room and saw that he was right. “How didn’t you think of that?” He accused.

“I never had a couch. How did _you_ not think of that?” Dean accused right back.

“I never had a house.”

“Alright,” said Dean. “Let’s just get on the IKEA website or something.”

They sat down at the dining table with Dean’s laptop and browsed for couches. Castiel’s eyes wandered off every few moments. The first floor alone was bigger than their old apartment, and now it was dark and dimly lit by a couple of yellow light bulbs.

“How about this one?” asked Dean and pointed at a light blue couch on the screen.

“Blue? Really?”

“What’s wrong with blue?” Dean asked.

“We’re not getting a blue sofa.”

“It’s my favorite color,” Dean protested.

“Keep scrolling.”

They watched a few more before Castiel’s phone buzzed.

Dean frowned. “Who’s calling you in the middle of...” he glanced at the clock. “Eight thirty in the evening?”

Castiel picked up his phone. “It’s Meg,” he said before he answered. “Hey.”

“Hey, loser.”

“You can’t call me that. I gave you a house.”

“I paid for this shithole,” said Meg. “Don’t get all righteous on me. Do you know where the instructions for the washing machine are? I can’t find them.”

“Uh...”

Dean mouthed a _what does she want? _

“Washing machine instructions,” he told Dean. “Can you check the instructions drawer?" He added into the phone, "We might have taken them with us.”

“Ugh. Great.”

“You’re welcome,” he said to Meg. He kept scrolling for sofas while Dean got up to check the drawer.

“What about this one?” He asked Dean over his shoulder. Dean took a look at the screen.

“It’s too gray.”

“Gray is neutral,” he argued.

“Gray’s boring.”

“Everything here is gray,” he said. “Or white. Or black. So unless you don’t want bright peach, we’re going with gray.”

“Or blue,” said Dean.

He sighed.

“You guys sound like a grandpa and then an uglier, dumber grandpa,” Meg said over the phone. “Tell him I said that.”

He glanced back at Dean and kept scrolling.

“What?” said Dean. “What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“What are you doing, anyway?” asked Meg.

“Picking sofas.”

“Didn’t you already move in?”

“Yes. We forgot to get a sofa.”

Meg let out a sigh. “I don’t know how your child is still alive,” she said. “Did you find my instructions?”

He turned to Dean. “Did you get it?”

Dean looked at the shut drawer, and there was shame in his eyes. “No.”

“Why not?”

“...It’s childproof.”

He sighed. “I’ll send you pictures when I find it,” he told Meg and got up to face the drawer.

“Tell Dean he’s a-” Meg started, but he hung up.

He opened the drawer and sent Meg the pictures. Meanwhile, Dean kept browsing until he got bored and started watching dog videos. Then he fell asleep on his laptop.

The upper floor was still bare, bar beds and dozens of boxes. Dean had trouble falling asleep, although he tried to pretend that he didn’t, and Castiel couldn’t tell whether it was the new house, the new bed, or his nightmares.

He woke up in the middle of the night to light footsteps approaching the bed. Dean was breathing heavily next to him, unconscious.

With his eyes closed, he moved his hand slowly to a knife placed beneath his pillow. The footsteps came closer – he found the knife – closer – he gripped the hilt – closer – he opened his eyes, and there was Claire, staring at him in the dark with her arms around Timothy the Destroyer.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t sleep,” she said and clutched the dragon tighter.

“Alright. Go back to bed. I’m-” But Claire was already climbing her way up the bed, stepping on his face and settling between Dean and him.

“I’m scared of the monsters,” she said and poked Dean in the shoulder.

“No, Claire. Don’t wake-”

“Monsters. Monsters.”

“You said you wouldn’t tell,” Dean mumbled out of sleep.

“You told her about monsters?” Castiel demanded.

“We’ll discuss it in the morning,” Dean muttered. He turned over, put an arm over Claire and Timothy and sank into sleep again.

In the morning they set up the house: devil’s traps and angel protection, hoax bags and spells and everything a hunters’ house needed. When that was done, they moved on to unpacking the living room. Dean sat down in between boxes and started pulling things out.

“How about we build a sofa made of boxes until we can decide on a real one?” said Castiel.

“I’m gonna take you up on that,” said Dean. “No take backs.” But then his smile faded, and his forehead creased. “I’m sorry I told Claire about the monster business. She was stressed out, and it seemed to calm her.”

“Yeah, I... kind of told her, too.”

“Oh. Well.” Dean took a record out of a box and watched it for a moment. Not quite watched it – saw past it. “I just don’t want her to grow up to be a hunter, you know?”

Castiel sat down next to him. “Yeah, I know.”

“But what can we do, man?” Dean asked. “She’s never going to be normal in this kind of family.”

Castiel traced the corner of a box with his finger, hesitant. “We could quit,” he said finally.

Dean turned to look at him.

“Or not,” he said. “I don’t know.”

Dean didn’t answer. He looked at his record some more and then put it down and took something else out of the box.

“What’s this?”

Dean flipped it from side to side. There was a note on the back.

“’To Cas and Dean, you’re our OTP. Love, Sam and Charlie’,” Dean read with furrowed eyebrows. “Is this a wedding gift?”

“Seems like it,” said Castiel, reading the date. 

“Did we forget to open this for a year and a half?”

“Open it now,” he said, and Dean tore off the wrapping paper. It was a framed picture of their wedding day – Dean crouching on the shore with Claire, touching the water with their hands, with Castiel all the way back, watching them with his hands in his pockets and a natural smile you wouldn’t catch on his face if he knew you were filming. He didn’t know who took that photo.

Dean leaned against his shoulder. As exhausted as they were, with a whole house left to unpack, they spent a while sitting on the living room floor and watching that photo. It seemed to come alive through the glass.


	29. I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here

**15 years later**

Castiel fixed the crooked mailbox on his way into the house. It was the sole indicator of this house being any kind of different from the other houses on the street – tall, well-kept, green-grassed, white-fenced. Tall, kept, grassed, kept, all along the road, and one crooked mailbox. And it wasn’t because this one was a hunters’ house, or because the occasional monster was dragged into it in the dead of night never to be seen again. It was because Dean and Claire liked to play baseball with large fruits while he was at work.

“Next time, fix the mailbox,” he said when he entered.

“Good to see you, too,” Dean said from the kitchen.

He walked in and gave Dean a kiss. “Or I’m eating all the melons for dinner,” he said.

“You can’t do that,” Claire groaned from the living room.

“He's right,” said Dean, if unwillingly. “We don’t want any neighbors looking our way.”

Castiel looked around the kitchen and stole a square of cheese from the cutting board. Before Dean could go into his usual _“Get out of my kitchen, you ass. Dinner’s ready in so-and-so”_, he lowered his voice and said into a pot of cooking ravioli,

“My old college roommate called today.”

Dean leaned against the counter and wiped his hands with a towel. “Garth?”

“Yes,” he said to the pot. “About a hunt.”

Dean’s lips moved, most likely about to utter some version of “why are you being weird?” But he didn’t say a thing.

They both glanced at Claire, then.

They were both working as private investigators with different police stations, and they went at it with wildly different methods. Castiel worked eight a.m. to six p.m. shifts Monday through Friday; Dean said police drove him crazy if he was around them for too long and preferred to work with them from afar. His workdays varied from staying in his PJs all day and doing research from home, through driving around following leads all day, to going on trips out of town that lasted days and sometimes weeks.

In both Dean’s and his case, the PI business was a cover for hunting. They paid their bills taking actual PI cases from regular people.

Thoughts of quitting the life and becoming a normal suburban family came and went along the years and never stuck. And except, Dean used to say, what’s the point in becoming a normal suburban family if there wasn’t any soccer mom involved?

It never made Castiel laugh.

And Claire knew. She knew about hunting, about monsters, about her biological parents – but she didn’t need to know about this. Not right away. Not right now.

Dean sensed that, it seemed, in the curve of Castiel’s mouth and in the slope of his shoulders. So he stepped back and resumed making dinner.

They ate with the soundtrack of Dean and Claire arguing about the Stars War, which still, to Castiel, was a foreign language. Then Claire went up to her room to play video games and talk on her phone for hours on end. Lately it's been more talking on the phone and less video games, which drew Dean’s and his attention, because she wasn't typically a social creature. But she was almost eighteen, which meant getting information out of her was harder than getting information out of an actual tortured monster in their basement.

So she was up in her room talking to a mysterious Unknown, and at that point Dean turned to him and asked:

“What’s up?”

“Something’s come up,” he said. “Garth asked me to check it out.”

Dean looked at him expectantly.

He didn’t like the next part. He didn’t like lying, not to Dean, and this wasn’t lying, but it was downplaying.

“Angel case,” he said, looking anywhere but Dean’s face. “Pretty standard stuff.”

Dean eyed him. “Then why are you being weird?”

There it was.

“Not weird,” he said. “I’m being normal.”

Dean looked at him. He looked at Dean. Dean kept looking at him.

He broke, then, and let out a breath it felt like he’d been holding since he answered that phone call.

“It’s a Nephilim situation,” he said. “Half angel, half human.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” said Dean. "Nothing we haven't seen before. I mean, only that one time, but..."

“Yeah...” Castiel ran a hand through his hair. “Only, this one is Satan’s child.”

Dean’s face whitened. Completely whitened. Blood drained, lips tightened, every muscle tensed.

“It sounds scary,” Castiel said warily. High-key cases stressed Dean, and they stressed him, but this felt like a bit of an overreaction. At the end of the day, they always came out on top.

“But it probably sounds bigger than it is. I mean, what harm can a child possibly do?” That was bullshit, and they both knew it. It was the Devil’s child. The most powerful being in the universe. But he didn't want to make Dean's face whiter. And if he was being honest, they'd seen, maybe, five "most powerful beings in the universe" just this season.

Dean put his face in his hands, fingers buried in his hair and white at the knuckles.

“No, no, no,” he was saying. “No, no.” His hands dropped then, and he slid heavily into a chair. Castiel sat beside him, touching his arm.

“What’s going on?”

Dean looked up at him. “We need to talk, Cas.”

“Okay.”

Dean glanced back in the direction of the stairs and turned to face him. “We really need to talk.”

“You’re being weird,” Castiel said, trying to sound like he was joking, rather than frightened. “What is it?”

“Seventeen years ago,” Dean said, slowly, deliberately, and Castiel was starting to get the full picture, the reason Dean was so rattled. This was a haunting-past situation. Seventeen years ago was all the way back to when he was in college and they were living in a no-bedroom apartment.

“When I killed Lilith,” said Dean, eyes moving around Castiel’s face as if he were trying to solve an algebra problem. “Trying to stop her from letting the devil out... Well.” His eyes dropped from Castiel’s face with an emotion Castiel almost didn’t recognize on him.

Shame.

“Well, what? What well?”

“Lilith tricked me. I guess I should’ve seen it coming. She told me the only way for us to be stopped was if she was killed. Turns out she was the last seal.” Dean looked him in the eye, now. “I killed her, and freed the Devil.”

Castiel leaned back in his chair, inhaled, exhaled.

“I came back,” said Dean, watching him, desperate for him to understand. “And it was all so complicated, anyway. I was still processing it myself. And then your dad died, and Claire came along, and everything else was shoved aside.”

“Seventeen years.” Castiel’s voice was only barely audible. “You said nothing.”

Dean’s mouth opened, and then shut.

“I’m not gonna bullshit you,” he said finally, with a tinge of bitterness, as if he were resenting himself for his own words.

Castiel knew what he meant. No lies. No excuses. No apologies.

“So now Satan...”

“Boinked someone,” Dean finished. His nose wrinkled at the words.

“And a child was born,” said Castiel.

“A very, very dangerous child.”

“And Garth asked me to stop it.”

Dean’s eyes rose to his face. “I’ll go,” he said gently. “It’s my mess. I should be the one to take care of it.” He saw objection rise up in Castiel’s eyes, and his face shifted into something teasing. “Except, I’ve been a hunter for longer.”

"Oh, please."

Dean shrugged, a hesitant smile on his face, testing the waters between them.

Castiel’s eyebrows pulled together. “I take all the angel cases. I’ve got more practice with them. I’m the one who took on the Novaks’ case when we got Claire and found out angels even exited.”

“You’re rusty,” Dean countered. His eyes were playful now. “I go on longer hunts, more often, and do more field work.”

“Garth called _me_,” said Castiel.

“That's just ‘cause he’s your friend.”

“It’s because he knows I’m the superior hunter,” Castiel argued.

“Why do you wanna go so much?” Dean asked.

“Why do _you_ want to go so much?”

“I'm the dispensable one,” said Dean. “Everyone knows it. You know it. Claire knows it."

He shook his head. “It makes more sense that I'll go, and you know it. I’ve got experience with angels, and I’m not recognizable as a notorious hunter.”

Dean grimaced at that. “That’s not true. Angels hate you.”

“This thing we’re dealing with is not an angel,” said Castiel. “Far from it. Just shares the DNA.”

Dean sighed. “Whatever I say, you’re not gonna let me take your place here, are you?”

Castiel shrugged, trying to make it seem as nonchalant as Dean did.

Dean’s lips tightened. But he didn’t argue any further.

“When do you need to go?” He asked, rubbing at his forehead.

“As soon as possible. I’m thinking tomorrow morning.”

“We need to tell Claire.”

“I’ll go up to her now,” Castiel said. It wouldn’t be the first time she got the ‘I’m leaving tomorrow, see you again, maybe,’ talk. It’s just she usually got those from Dean.

He stood up, touching Dean’s shoulder, and went up the stairs.

Claire’s door was shut, and he could hear her voice inside the room. He knocked, waited a moment, then opened the door.

She was sitting on her bed, talking into her phone. When Castiel entered, she glanced at him, mumbled a “Later” and hung up.

“What’s up?” She said and moved to make space on the bed. Castiel eyed the edges of her lips with a squint. They were pressed down, as if trying to suppress a smile.

“Who were you talking to?” He asked.

“No one.”

“Alright.”

“What do you want?”

He tapped his fingers on his knee. “I’m going on a hunt tomorrow.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Does Dean know?”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Okay,” she said.

Castiel explained. And the more detail he went into, the more the furrow between her eyebrows seemed to deepen.

“This sounds kind of big,” she said when he was finished. “Why aren't you both going?”

Castiel considered his answer, then leaned forward and spoke quietly. “If this goes wrong...” He’d never discussed this with Dean, not with words. But it had always been there as a silent agreement between them. They never went together on hunts that were more than the casual vampire-around-the-corner, ever since they took Claire in.

"Safety net," Claire finished, eyeing him. "You're scared you'll be leaving me alone."

He nodded.

“And I don't get a say in this?” Claire asked.

Castiel's eyebrows furrowed. “What kind of say do you want?”

“Picking out a favorite dad?”

He pushed back a snort. “No.”

When he left the room, Claire barely returned him a “good night” before her nose was stuck in her phone again. He sighed, trying not to let the memory of himself, at that age, texting Dean, soften him towards all this shady texting and calling she was doing, and closed the door after him.

Dean was already in bed, with his laptop in his lap, when Castiel entered their bedroom.

He walked around the bed and changed into sleepwear. “She took it alright,” he said when Dean didn’t say anything.

Dean looked up from his screen. “Good.” He seemed more disturbed than distracted.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked and walked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He could see Dean’s reflection behind him through the mirror.

“Trying to look up more about this case.”

“Yeah,” he said with a mouthful of toothpaste to indicate that he was listening.

“I dunno, Cas,” Dean said behind him. “It looks pretty messed up.”

“Right,” he answered. “But someome ha'got'te ta'care o'it.”

"What?"

He spit. "Someone has got to take care of it."

“What happened to all the other hunters in the world?” Dean muttered. 

“They’re dead.”

Dean scowled. It was an answer he couldn’t really argue against; it was harder to come by a hunter these days than it was to come by a three-headed goat.

“I’m just saying - this Satan’s spawn, we don’t know what it looks like, or how powerful it is, or whether it’s got Satan by its side, guarding it from harmless little hunters he can swat away like flies.”

_I know_, he wanted to yell. _I’ve been chewing this up in my head for hours desperately trying not to come to the same conclusions._

He didn’t say that. He said:

“I think Claire is dating someone.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean’s eyes were still glued to the screen.

Castiel looked at him. “She told you about him?” He got into bed, and Dean finally closed the laptop and looked at him.

“You think? I heard her talking on the phone last week while we were picking up dinner. Kay something. Kai. You think we should talk to her about it?” He nudged Castiel with his elbow. “Scare her a little? Give her The Talk?”

He was about to say, _No, I think we should leave her be like any teenager wants and make sure she carries an angel blade – _but he thought about it for a moment longer and changed his mind.

“You should.”

“What?”

“You should talk to her,” he said. “Make sure she’s doing alright.”

“Alright,” said Dean. “I guess.”

“Now.”

“Right. Okay.” Dean got up, glancing at him. “I’m sure she’s okay,” he said before leaving the room.

Castiel slid down until his head was on his pillow. Maybe this dating business could distract both Dean and Claire for a few minutes from what they were all thinking about.

But it couldn’t distract him. He stared at the ceiling and tried to steady his breathing until he heard footsteps out in the hall again. 

Dean walked in, closed the door after him and sat down on the bed. He looked mildly traumatized.

“Did you have the talk?” Castiel asked.

“We had the talk all right.”

“And?”

“And... Apparently Kay is Kaia. And apparently Kaia is also a girl’s name.”

Castiel rose up to his elbows. “When was it not a girl’s name?”

Dean shook his head. “She’s dating a girl.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell her?” He asked.

“Use protection.”

“Angel blade?”

Dean looked at him, eyebrows pulled down in frustration. But then he dropped his frown and the ends of his lips rose, only just slightly. “Yeah. Angel blade.”

Dean managed to fall asleep just fine on his shoulder – or if he didn’t, his acting was pretty darn convincing. Castiel stared at different dark spots in the room and tried to treasure the moment. He wondered when he would next spend a night at home.

Not a few days’ job, or a week’s, or maybe even a month's. How long did it take to take down an archangel’s child? Two months? Three? Four? However long it was, he sort of hoped, secretly, just a little bit, that he would miss Claire’s orientation day at her new college in half a year. It had a Bring Your Parent option, and the whole thing was just too awkward for him. He was dealing with a worlds-destroying entity; Dean could take Meet the Professors: Salsa Version.

Everyone woke up moody the next morning. They said goodbye by the car.

Claire said, “Good luck,” and gave him a side-hug.

Dean said, “Don’t be too long,” and hugged him a little too tightly. It made his chest heavy.

He said: “Fix the mailbox if you hit it with a cantaloupe,” and got into the car.


	30. It's a Terrible Life

Dean woke up alone. He drank his morning coffee alone. He went to work alone, and drove back home in the evening, and ate dinner with Claire. He washed the dishes. He watched the news.

He went into bed.

He couldn't fall asleep alone.

It was half past one and he threw his blankets off and let his feet slide onto the cold floor. He paced around the room for a while. He wasn’t really tired. Maybe he should open his laptop and keep working the case. He hasn’t found anything useful so far, but if he just kept looking, there must be something that could help Cas, could solve this case for him, could bring him home so Dean could sleep.

He left the bedroom and made for the stairs when he heard Claire calling him from her room.

“Hey,” he said and leaned against the door frame. “What’re you doing up?”

“Nothing,” she said, and her eyes jumped in the general direction of her phone and back to his face.

“Ah.” Kaia.

Claire patted a spot on her bed, and Dean came in and sat down.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

"Need to get used to being able to stretch my legs on the bed without someone kicking me in the shin," he said. "It's been a while."

“Aww.” She punched his arm lightly. “You’re adorable.”

“It's a matter of habit." Dean grimaced. "The bed is colder without him. It's a temperature thing. You wouldn't be able to sleep either in the middle of winter if I took your heater away.”

Claire’s eyebrow rose. “You're comparing Cas to a heater?"

“He's a human heater when he’s asleep.”

“Or,” she said, “You just miss him.”

“Shut up.” He pointed at her. “I’m fine.”

“Sure.”

“Go to sleep,” he told her.

“You go to sleep.”

“I think I’m gonna try to give Cas a call. Just to make sure he’s doing alright.”

“Don’t bother,” said Claire. “He’s probably already forgotten you exist.”

“Thanks for that,” said Dean.

When he made his way out Claire was already eyeing her phone, waiting for him to leave.

Cas called every night. Things were moving slowly. He found leads that turned out to be meaningless. He had run-ins with demons that didn't tell him anything. Weeks passed, and he started talking about missing home, and Dean pretended it didn't make him grouchy.

"What are you still doing in your lair?" Claire asked one night, leaning against the door frame of his office. "You've been here for hours."

"It's an office," Dean said and gestured at the wall he was standing in front of, decorated with articles and information on archangels and their half-human children. "I'm working the case."

"It's a lair, and you're out of control."

"I'm distracting myself." Dean leaned against his desk. "See?" he raised his hands in proof. "I'm not thinking about Cas. I don't even remember what he looks like anymore."

"You can't distract yourself by thinking about the thing you're trying to distract yourself from. That makes no sense." Claire walked in and sat in his office chair. "You need a hobby. Like knitting, or cake decorating, or boxing." she looked up at him. "I think cake decorating might really be a good fit for you."

"I need to work," said Dean.

"You always work." Claire spun the chair toward him, her eyes on the desk. "I miss him."

"I know."

"I know you're sad that he's not here," said Claire, "But I am. And sometimes it just feels like you left, too, when Cas did."

Dean sighed. "I guess you're right." He sent a hand to dishevel her hair, and she leaned away to dodge it. "Smart kid. Where did you get that from?"

"Definitely not you, Mr. 'a dragon fruit can't possibly hurt the mailbox'."

"We aren't supposed to talk about it," Dean warned. Then he pushed himself up from the desk. "Come on. Let's make some dinner."

Claire started up the stove while Dean took the trash out.

He was a few feet away from the trash can when he heard a voice behind him.

"Dean. Winchester."

He turned around swiftly, instinctively looking for danger. But it wasn't a dangerous voice. It was more of a nice-old-lady voice. And before him, on the other side of the road, smiled a nice old lady's face.

"Hey... You," he said. He recognized her immediately. He just didn't remember where from, or what was her name, or whether it was suspicious that she was in his neighborhood, wearing a monochrome sports suit.

"How are you doing?" she asked, almost disbelievingly. She crossed the road and hugged him tightly. "Last time I've seen you must’ve been fifteen, sixteen years ago."

Dean stared at her blankly. He almost had it; he could feel it on the margins of his brain. If she could just give him a clue, like... like tell him her name, then he would _definitely _remember her name.

"I called your partner the other day," she went on. "To ask if he knew a good place available. And what do you know, here I am now!" She threw her arms in the air. "What was his name? Pass?"

"Cas," Dean corrected, a little harsher than he'd intended.

"Yeah. I see you're doing alright for yourselves." she nodded at their house. "Quite an upgrade from your last place."

"Yeah," Dean said, and furrowed his eyebrows, and remembered. "Marcy," he blurted out. Their old neighbor.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Um. Nothing. I have to go. I have to... throw this out." And as he said it he realized he still had a bag of trash in his hand. He hugged his neighbor with trash.

"Sure," said Marcy. "Hey, would you guys like to come over for dinner tomorrow night? You can bring your... Do you have any dogs?"

"Daughter," said Dean. "I don't know. Let me ask..." His voice faded, and he felt a sudden throb in his chest. He wanted to shout at Cas. _Be here, dammit. Be here so I can ask you about dinners. Just..._

_Be here._

"You know what, this isn't the best time. Thanks, though."

"Are you sure?" asked Marcy. "Would be nice to have one familiar face around here. Or three. The other people here don't seem very friendly."

"Yeah, they aren't." Dean sighed. Marcy looked up at him expectantly. "...Alright. We'll bring pie."

"Wonderful," Marcy beamed at him. "I'll let you get back to your trash, now."

They had to ring the doorbell twice before Marcy opened the door.

"What's with her?" Claire asked while they waited.

"Takes time to get used to hearing the bell from upstairs," said Dean.

The garden had those ugly pink flamingos and a lot of flowers. The lawn was green and lively. No sign of the mailbox being abused via fruit.

"I think on our first month here we never opened the door. Maybe that's why the neighbors hate us."

"I thought it was because of the monsters."

"Cas thinks it's because of the mailbox."

The door swung open a moment later.

"Hello," Marcy smiled at them. "Come in."

Dean handed her a bottle of apple juice and a pecan pie as they walked in.

For some reason, being inside this house took Dean back to his and Cas' old apartment, even though the places looked nothing alike. This woman still felt a little bit like a figment from the past.

Marcy led them to the dining room and put the apple juice on the table. Dean looked around; the map was floral, and there were pictures of cups full of butter on the walls. Just full of it. Real brimming. Absolutely overflowing with chunks of solid butter. Claire gave him a look, and he shrugged.

"When did you move here?" Dean asked as they sat down.

"Just last weekend," said Marcy.

"Wow. Really? You must've worked really hard. The place looks spotless." He kicked Claire's foot under the table to make her look up from her pasta long enough to nod politely.

"I'm still working on the second floor," said Marcy. She looked between Claire and him. "So where's Pass?"

"Work trip," they both answered at the same time.

"Where to?"

"Upstate," said Dean, at the same time Claire said, "Alabama."

Marcy stared at them.

"Upstate Alabama," Dean corrected. "So is the neighborhood to your liking?"

He didn't know what he was doing. He'd never said 'to your liking' before.

Marcy nodded. "It's beautiful," she said. "And it gives me more space to work on my art."

"Your art?"

She gestured at the paintings on the walls. "Buttercups."

"Those aren't..." Claire started, but Dean kicked her under the table again.

"They're lovely," he said. "Really capture the essence of... Butter."

"Do you have any hobbies?" Marcy asked Claire.

Claire leaned back in her chair. "Hunting monsters and making out with my girlfriend."

Marcy's mouth fell into a small gape. Dean coughed.

"She's kidding," he said. "Teenagers." He cleared his throat. "She's really into cake decorating."

Claire raised an eyebrow at him. He knew this look; it was the _you wanna play this game? _look she had adopted when she turned thirteen. She looked at Marcy pointedly. "We do it together."

Dean sent her a glare.

"That's lovely," Marcy said hesitantly. "And what do you and Pass do for a living?"

"We're private investigators," he said. His phone rang. "Excuse me. I have to take this."

"Of course."

As he left the room, he heard Claire say, "it's Cas."

"What?" said Marcy.

"Not pass."

He answered his phone in the kitchen, looking out into the street.

"Dean. It's me."

"What's up?" He asked.

"I'm getting close," said Cas.

"Yeah."

"No. I mean, really close." there was a pause. "Where are you?"

"Dinner with our new neighbor," said Dean. "This Marcy woman. Said you helped her find a place here."

"Oh."

"So how close are you?" He asked.

"I need you to check an address for me."

"Alright."

"I think the Devil is trying to lure his child into there. And I think it's working. I don't know when, but soon. The next few days. Maybe a week. I'll text you the address."

"Great," said Dean. "Are you prepared?"

"As much as I can be."

"I could join you..."

"We talked about this," said Cas curtly.

He let out a sigh. "Okay. Text me the address. I'll check it when we get home."

"Thanks. No pressure," said Cas. "Though it's pretty urgent, so get back to me as soon as you can. But it's fine. Just hurry. No pressure. Hurry, though." there was the vague sound of something hitting the floor. "I need to go." He hung up.

Dean looked at his phone with bewilderment for a moment. Then he walked back into the dining room.

"Something came up," he said. "We should go. Thanks for having us."

Claire stood up. Marcy watched them with confusion. And without further explanation, they were gone.

"I picked a movie," Claire said from the living room. "Stop sulking and bring chips."

"Later," Dean muttered.

She crossed the room and stood beside the dining table, looking down at him with her hands on her hips.

"He'll call," she said.

"He usually calls at seven."

Claire checked her phone. "It's five minutes past seven."

"In the morning," Dean snapped.

"You're right. It's been twelve hours. He's probably dead."

Dean grimaced at her.

"Come on." she pulled his arm. "He's fine. He probably just fell asleep in his car. Ever since you searched the address for him he's been completely obsessed with it. I think he just sits in front of it and waits for something to happen."

"Could make a phone call while he's waiting," Dean grumbled as he let Claire drag him into the living room; but when he saw the CD on the coffee table he stopped. "We're not watching that."

"Yes, we are. It's Sunday morning. I'm not doing homework."

"We're supposed to watch it together. As a family."

"You need a distraction," said Claire. "We both do. And I've never seen it."

She put the disc into the DVD player and pressed play. The recording started. Dean sank into the sofa and pulled up a stubborn frown.

_“Is it on?"_ Came the first sounds from the TV, and a scene unfolded on the screen. _"You need to make sure it’s on.”_

_“I don’t know. Did you turn it on?”_

_“Yes, I turned it on.”_

Claire turned to him. "How old were you guys in this?"

"Not much older than you," said Dean. "Maybe a year or a couple older."

"Twenty?" Claire asked. She watched herself on the screen. To her, it was a lifetime. To Dean it felt like it had been a week. "Must've been hard," she said. "I can't imagine raising a baby at this age."

"You better not," Dean warned her.

"I'll try not to get knocked up."

That got a short laugh out of him.

"So," he cleared his throat. "What's Kaia like?"

"Not happening," Claire said at the screen.

"A’ight."

They watched in silence for a minute.

_"Look at this old dump. This is where you used to live when you were a baby. Isn’t that nuts? Not as much as me talking to a future version of you. Take a good look at this place, ‘cause by the time you’re three it’ll be long gone, just like us, probably, by the time you watch this.”_

Dean shifted on the couch.

_“Dean.”_

_“What? In sixteen years we’ll be over thirty-five. That’s like eighty for a hunter."_

"You know what," he said, about to stand up, but Claire grabbed the remote and pushed the fast-forward button. It skipped through the video first and into the second one.

This one had the three of them sitting on the grass in the front yard. _"Look at this house," _twenty-two year old Dean was saying._"Can you believe it?"_ he let his jaw fall slack at three-year-old Claire.

_"Dean, look out."_

_"Ouch."_ Dean picked up the orange that had just hit him in the face. _"Did you see that throw? That was amazing."_ He threw the orange back to baby Claire. It hit the mailbox.

"And so it started," said real-life Claire.

"One week after we moved in," said Dean. His phone vibrated. "Hold on," he said and answered it. "Hey." he stood up and walked to the kitchen. "What's up?" he tried to sound casual rather than embarrassingly anxious.

"I found the Nephilim," said Cas. It didn't sound like he was in a rush. His voice sounded strained. "And the Devil."

"So the meeting happened," Dean said, half-assertion, half-question. He glanced over his shoulder. Claire was looking at him from the couch, not even pretending to not be eavesdropping.

"Yeah."

"And?" he stressed.

"They got away." Cas let out a breath that was a little too shaky for Dean to think nothing of it. "And my car is wrecked, so I might need a ride."

"So it's like that between us," said Dean, trying for a laugh, but it came out flat.

"It's like that," Cas answered, and there was a smile in his voice, and exhaustion.

He looked down at his hand and realized he'd been spinning his ring on his finger. "Are you hurt?" He asked quietly.

There was silence on the other line. Finally, Cas said, "You've got the address."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, this one's for my freb, [buttercuppa.](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3BEw0N_KqOvmkosn4QyO6Q) I'm just buttering her up ._.


	31. Dead or Alive

The moment Dean hung up the phone, he was already at the door. There were weapons in the car. It was a twelve-hour drive - ten at his current pace. He could manage with one stop. He was good to go.

Claire grabbed her coat and followed him.

"You're not coming," he said over his shoulder.

"Yeah, alright," she said and pushed past him, out of the house. Dean grabbed her shoulder.

"This isn't some cute vampire case," he hissed. They were almost at the car now, and neighbors could be watching from their windows. They'd spent weeks keeping the mailbox straight and fruitless. He owed it to Cas, now, not to raise suspicion any other way. "This is the big league, and you could get seriously hurt."

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't care."

Dean took a breath. Then, in his calmest voice, he said, "I am not bringing you to a meeting with Satan." He pointed at the house, and by the look on Claire's face, she could tell he was past the point of anger. "Go back in."

"Fine," she muttered. Her shoulders slackened.

"Good," said Dean. "Good."

That was easier than he'd expected. But he'll take it. He turned away and got into the car. Shut the door. Turned the key. Then the door on the passenger side opened, and Claire got inside.

"Dude," Dean said.

"Dude."

“Come on."

"We're wasting time," she said, buckling her seat belt. "Just drive. You can lecture me on the way over"

She was infuriating. She was infuriating, because she knew just what buttons to push to get her way.

Dean switched the gears and started driving silently.

"Come on," Claire said as they were leaving the town. "Where's the lecture? It's nine a.m. There's no way I'm falling asleep if you don't start talking."

He didn't answer. Claire looked at him, reading the lines of worry on his face.

"It'll be okay."

Claire made herself in charge of the directions. She did a pretty good job. She also made herself in charge of emotional support. Not so good with that.

10:12: "I'm sure he's fine. He said it himself, he just needed a ride."

12:47: "He's definitely not gonna die."

1:50: "If he dies, we'll just buy a new one."

4:26: "If you keep driving this fast, you're gonna crash the car."

4:28: "When do we get there? I'm hungry."

4:40: [food stop]

5:02: "If you crash the car I'm gonna puke my cheeseburger all over it, so lay off the gas, man."

The address Cas had given them led them to a big warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Its metals screeched in the wind. Dean opened the trunk and got an angel blade and a shotgun out of it, just in case. Then he took Sam's amulet off his neck and handed it to Claire.

Just in case.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Stay here." He glared at her until she nodded.

"Fine."

"Good." He picked up his gun and started walking. A moment later, Claire was walking beside him.

"For fuck's-" He exhaled. "Do I need to lock you inside the car for you to do what I say?"

"That's illegal, bro."

When they walked in, the warehouse seemed abandoned. Blood was... everywhere. He looked around for Cas. For a moment he wondered if that was what it looked like for Cas and Bobby when they had walked into Lilith's church. He bet it felt the same; like a knife of cold steel being shoved into his chest, twisting and twisting into his heart with unimaginable pai-

Never mind. There was Cas, sitting against one of the walls. His eyes were closed.

He wasn't moving.

Dean rushed over and knelt before him, touching his shoulder.

Cas opened his eyes.

"Hey. Hey, I've got you." Dean looked him over and a lump rose in his throat. There was a bullet hole in his shirt, right below the left shoulder, and everything around it was soaked red.

"Hey," Cas said, and his lips twisted. It might have meant to be a smile.

"Hey. You're gonna be ok."

"Yeah, I know," said Cas. "But you're pressing my bullet-shoulder and the pain is unbearable."

"Oh. Sorry." Dean took his hand off. "let's get you outta here." there was a hand on his shoulder, then, and Claire pulled him aside.

"He'll be okay," Dean told her. "We've just gotta get him to a hospital. Now."

"There's way too much blood for him to be okay," Claire whispered weakly.

Dean put a hand on her shoulder. "It's gonna be alright," he said securely, and didn't believe it one bit. "But we have to go."

"We might have another problem," Claire stopped him. She tilted her head towards the other side of the room.

They had a witness.

He was sitting against the wall opposite of them with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, and he looked at them with terror. He couldn't be older than sixteen.

"Later," Dean asserted and knelt down again. He wrapped Cas' good arm around his own shoulders and helped him up.

"Let's go," he said to Claire. Cas halted.

"Take the kid," he said, trying for a gesture towards the boy with his injured shoulder's arm.

"Why?"

"Because he's the one I took a bullet for."

Dean kept going. Claire grabbed the kid.

Cas barely managed the walk to the car.

"Sit with him and keep him awake," Dean told Claire. He turned to the boy. "You. Front seat."

With Claire's help, he got Cas inside the car.

"Tell me what happened," he said when he started driving.

"Can we do this later?" Cas asked. "I'm in the middle of dying"

"No. I need you to stay awake. Tell me what happened."

Cas sighed weakly. All his breaths came out shallow. "There was a fight. Between the Devil and... His kid, I guess."

They hit a pothole, and Cas clenched his teeth.

"They fought each other?" Dean focused his stare on the road, and in his eyes was everything his voice didn't hold. _I'm not gonna let you die alone. I'm not gonna let you. This isn't ending for you the way I had thought it did for me seventeen years ago. _"I thought they were supposed to be on the same team."_ This time I'm here. This time I've got you. This time the last thing you're going to see is the people you love._

He hit the gas a little harder.

"Me too. I don't know." Cas was quiet for a moment. Dean glanced at the rearview mirror; his eyes were slipping closed. Claire shook him gently.

"Cas. You have to stay awake. What happened next?"

Cas stared straight ahead hollowly. "I don't want to say."

"Well, you're gonna have to."

"The Devil was wearing my brother."

_"What?"_ Dean's foot slipped off the gas pedal for a moment. The car swayed lightly to the right before he pulled it back into his lane. "Which one?"

"Luci," said Cas. "Think about it. It makes sense considering what you told me before I left. My brother disappeared around the time you died and raised the Devil from hell."

"Alright," Dean cut him off. "What next?" no need to go into detail about how he majorly messed up trying to stop the Devil and accidentally assisting him with their daughter and a stranger in the car.

He glanced in the mirror again. Cas' eyes were on the boy in the passenger seat. "Jack just happened upon the place," he said. "Luci took my gun and tried to shoot the kid, and I got in his way." He hesitated. "Everything past that was a blur."

They were in a city now – Dean wasn't sure what city; it wasn't important. He followed signs to the local hospital. His mind was reciting the same words ten, twenty, thirty times, like he could telepathically transfer them to Cas, like he was in a second grade school play and this was his only line.

_I might not be able to save you, but I'm not gonna let you die alone. _

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean jumped to his feet.

The doctor slid his glasses on and looked through his files for a moment. Then he eyed Claire and Jack.

"Who are you?"

"Family," said Claire. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he's just fine." He eyed Dean. "You alright, there?"

"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat and tried to look less sick. "Told you he'd be fine," he shot at Claire. "Wasn't even worried." His voice was too rough to sound convincing. He cleared his throat again and squared his shoulders.

The doctor spent another moment looking through the files. "We removed the bullet from his shoulder," he said to Dean. "Lucky the bullet stayed in. The wound wasn't nearly deadly, but he lost a lot of blood. If the bullet had left his body, I'm afraid he would have lost much more blood through the exit wound. We patched him up, gave him more blood and fluids. He's being transferred to the inpatient ward where you can see him. I want him here for tonight to make sure nothing's going wrong, but I'll come by tomorrow morning. If everything looks fine, I'll sign his release papers and you can go back home. Questions?"

Dean shook his head. "Thanks, doc," he said, and they made their way to the inpatient ward.

Cas looked like shit when they arrived. He was sleeping, his face almost gray, his shoulder wrapped in a bandage.

The three of them stood around his bed.

"He's still breathing," said Claire.

"He'll walk it off."

She looked at Dean. "You seem less concerned than you were before we got here."

Dean shrugged her stare off. He couldn't explain it to someone who hadn't been through what Cas and him had been through. How the worst nightmares were often the things that had already happened happening again.

"I'm gonna get some water," Dean said and walked toward the vending machine. Claire followed him.

"What do think about this guy?" She asked. Dean looked back at Cas' bed. Jack was sitting by it, head tilted, eyebrows furrowed.

"Don't know yet," he said and pushed a coin into the machine.

"Seems like a doofus," said Claire.

"He looks like a little clone of Cas."

"Exactly," Claire said.

"Watch it," Dean said, but there was the shadow of a smile on his lips.

When they looked at the bed again, Cas' hand rested on Jack’s arm and he was talking to the boy with urgency. He seemed to be very much awake.

Dean grabbed his bottle from the machine and walked back to the bed.

"I see you're feeling better," he said, arms crossed over his chest. Cas' hand dropped onto his bed.

"I'm fine," he said.

Dean glared at the boy for a few moments until Claire showed up.

"Come on, Jack," she said. "I'll show you where they keep the nougat."

They went away, and Dean sat down in a chair.

"Doctor said they're gonna let you go tomorrow," he said. "Are you in pain?"

"No. I'm fine."

"What's the deal with the kid?"

"I told you," said Cas. "He was just unlucky walking into there at the wrong time."

"Then why's he acting weird?" Dean asked.

"I don't know. Teenagers are weird."

"Okay." Dean leaned back in his chair. "So he has nothing to do with the Devil's child?"

"No."

"So he's just a regular kid?"

"As far as I know," said Cas.

Dean sighed and looked around the room. He spotted Claire and the boy standing by the vending machine. She seemed to be explaining Jack how to use it. He pressed a button hesitantly, and jerked back a little when his chocolate bar fell down from its rack.

"I don't buy it. He's hiding something," said Dean. "We'll find out what it is." He looked back at Cas. "You good?"

"Yeah."

He patted Cas' hand and walked back to the vending machine.

"How you doing," he said to Jack, not really meaning it.

"Okay," said the boy, looking up at Dean nervously.

"Where'd you come from, Jack?" Dean asked.

"You know what," said Claire, "I should-"

"You can stay," Dean cut her off.

"I don't know," Jack mumbled. "Around here."

"Where are your parents?"

"I don't know," he repeated. "Dead?"

"Dead?"

Jack looked at him silently.

Dean tilted his head in the general direction of Cas. "My partner over there decided, for some reason, that he should take a bullet for you," he said. "But I don't trust you."

Jack nodded. "I understand," he said, and started to walk away.

"Hey," Dean called after him. "Where are you going?"

Jack turned around. "I don't know."

"Do you have a home to get back to?"

He shook his head.

Dean sighed. "You're coming back with us," he said, and walked away.

They stayed at the hospital overnight, moving between the cafeteria and the inpatient ward when the nurses weren't looking.

Cas felt alright. He felt so alright, that for most of the night he sat in his bed and wrote notes and used his phone for research, which drove Dean crazy, which resulted in him being removed from the ward by Claire.

Around seven a.m., a nurse came to take Cas' blood pressure and and a sample for a blood test. The doctor showed up at ten in the morning.

"Everything looks fine," he said. "I'm going to sign your release papers. Take them to reception and they'll give you your bill. There shouldn't be a problem, just drive slowly and carefully on the way home." He turned to Cas. "If you start bleeding or feel extreme pains come back to the ER immediately."

Claire elbowed Dean's side. "I'd like to see you drive slowly and carefully all the way back home," she said. "It'll take us twenty hours."

The doctor looked at her. "You don't live in the area?"

"It's a ten..." Dean glanced at Cas' wounded shoulder. "Twelve-hour drive."

"Have you considered taking a flight back?"

Dean stared at him, desperately trying to keep his expression smooth. "Would that. Um. Would that be better?"

"I'm sure it isn't necessary," said Cas, watching him closely.

"Neither option is ideal," said the doctor. "But with your kind of injury, at your age, I would approve of you taking a flight. I'd consider a couple hours' flight over an entire day on the highway if I were you. Save you some pains and discomfort."

"We can drive," Cas said reluctantly once the doctor was gone, watching the tightness in Dean's face. "That's fine by me."

"I'll get us plane tickets," Dean said. Cas kept looking at him weird. "I'm fine. It's fine. This is... Fine."

"But the car..."

"I'll take care of the car."

"What's going on?" Jack asked, his eyes ping-ponging between them.

"He's scared of flying," Claire told him.

"I'm fine," Dean insisted. "I can handle a... Flying death machine." Was he sweating? It felt like he was sweating. "Billions of people fly every year."

"And only hundreds die," Jack offered helpfully. Claire took the liberty of stepping on his toes.

"Are we leaving?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," said Cas. He was already dressed in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt that Claire and Jack had gotten from some shop across the street. "I just need a moment with Jack."

Dean watched him, crossing his arms slowly. "Go ahead."

Cas returned an even look, his jaw set. "Alone."

Dean followed Claire back to the door. She didn't have to drag him or anything. He went away willingly once she pulled his hand hard enough to take it out of its socket. 

"What are they talking about?" He asked, eyes narrowing back in Cas and Jack's direction.

"Your ugly haircut," said Claire, shrugging when he glared at her.

She took something off her neck and handed it to him.

His amulet.

"I don't need a symbol to..." he started. But then he huffed, thinking about their airborne ride home, and took it from her waiting hand. "Give me that."


	32. Carry On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER for this chapter: this was written from Dean's fear-of-flights personal perspective. The portrayal of flight and airplanes in this chapter does NOT represent the true experience. Airplanes are safe :)

Airports were bigger than Dean had imagined. Everything in them was bigger: huge halls, huge corridors, and don't get him started on the planes. How can those things possibly be safe to shoot through the sky like a cannonball? It was ridiculous. And reckless, and stupid. And-

"Ticket, please?"

He looked down at the flight attendant. Then he looked at the three faces staring at him from the entrance to the plane sleeve. Claire waved him over with an impatient frown. He could practically hear her internal _"ugh, you're embarrassing me."_

he handed the lady his ticket, and she passed it through a scanner, returned it and let him pass.

He followed Cas, Claire and Jack onto the plane. There were grinning flight attendants everywhere who were saying things like "welcome" and "have a good flight", which, honestly, was just creepy, considering his luck, combined with the fact that planes were horrifying death machines.

"Alright," said Claire. "We've got two seats in the middle and two in the back. I'm-"

"Jack, why don't you go ahead?" said Dean and took the tickets from her hand, handing one to Jack and squinting at the other. "I'll join you at the back in a moment."

Jack nodded and kept walking.

"Actually," Claire snatched her ticket back. "I'm gonna take the back seat and spend some quality time with the weirdo stranger we're letting into our house."

Passengers pushed past them. Dean reached for the ticket, but Claire moved her hand. He let out a sigh.

"I'm not leaving you alone with that guy," he said.

"If you two spend the flight together, it'll be a nightmare for both of you, and you know it," Claire said. "I can handle a teenage boy." she looked back at the kid: he was staring lovingly at a piece of nougat a flight attendant had handed him. Meanwhile, Cas sat down and touched his aching shoulder. Dean searched his pockets and handed him a bottle of painkillers.

"You guys both need a break," said Claire, gesturing at Cas. "Except, you both look like you're about to throw up, and I don't care to be vomited on. So if you want to you can do that on the other sucker who sits next to you."

"Excuse me," said a woman waiting behind them. Claire gave him a winning shrug and moved along.

Dean sank into his seat.

"I don't like this," he said.

"She's ten seats away," said Cas. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"She could be sitting next to a non-natural monster," Dean shot back. He tapped his fingers anxiously on the armrest of his seat. An old, friendly-looking lady took the seat to his other side, by the aisle.

Cas sighed and touched his shoulder again with a grimace. "Jack is human. I'm sure of it. He just happened upon the warehouse at the wrong time."

“He’s weird.”

“He’s still processing the non-natural things he saw.”

The old lady unwrapped a mint and put it in her mouth. Dean didn't answer. He looked around them. They were taking off. He tightened his seat belt.

Beside him, Cas opened his mouth, and closed it. A moment passed. Then he leaned in and said,

"Maybe the Nephilim isn't as bad as we think. Maybe it's just confused, and in need of guidance."

Dean clenched his teeth. Takeoff was doing things to his stomach. "No way," he whispered back. "It's literally Satan's child. There's no way it's got good in it, and even if it did, we can't take that risk. We have to find it and kill it before it gets the chance to hurt more people." He threw a look at the back of the plane. Claire seemed to be teaching Jack how to make a braid using the hair of a person sleeping on the row before them.

"Okay, but say you found out this creature wasn't all bad, and could actually improve and become a good person?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at?"

Cas leaned towards him eagerly. "Aren't you capable of a little bit of change? If you find out you were wrong about something?"

"I'm not capable of change. I'm old."

"You're thirty-seven!"

"I'm set in my ways."

"Ugh." Cas leaned back in his seat, jaw tight.

"Don't 'ugh' me," Dean muttered. The lady on his other side threw a glance their way.

"You know-" Cas started saying, when the plane started shaking.

"What's happening?" Dean asked and gripped his armrest tightly.

"It's just turbulence." Cas took his hand and rubbed his own shoulder with a wrinkled nose. "Are you okay?" he asked softly.

Dean let out a noncommittal sound. "Don't let go."

"I won't."

To his other side, the old lady looked him up and down. "Never flown before?" she asked. It wasn't said in a nice, interested 'first time flying?' tone. It was judging. The lady was judging him.

It was barely an hour before the pilot announced they were beginning to land.

"Thank god," Dean muttered, but then there was rocking and pulling down in angles that didn't feel right.

"This is what landing is like," Cas said reassuringly, patting his hand.

"You're kidding me, right?" Dean said through clenched teeth. "Landing is supposed to feel like plummeting to your death?"

"Yeah."

The lady to his left started laughing to herself.

"What's your problem?" Dean shot at her. Cas touched his hand.

"Dean, don't start a fight with an old lady when you're about to vomit."

He dropped it, even when the lady smiled smugly at him, and spent the rest of the landing trying to find non-suspicious angles to spy on Claire and Jack.

"How'd you do?" Claire asked while they were getting off the plane.

"Didn't die," he said. "So I'm counting that as a win."

"So now you're cool with...?"

"Never getting on a plane again as long as I'm alive," he answered, and walked toward the exit.

"Dibs on the shower," Claire called when they entered home. "Now that I'm sharing it with someone." she didn't look at Jack accusingly, but she might as well have.

Cas touched Jack's shoulder. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."

They climbed up the stairs, and Dean walked into the bedroom to change.

"This is supposed to be the office," he could hear Cas say from another room. "But we usually just do our work downstairs. So there's the spare bed, and I'm just going to grab you some things."

Dean threw his clothes in the laundry basket and walked out of the bedroom. In the hallway, Cas was leaving the bathroom with a toothbrush and a pair of pajamas in his hands.

"You good?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"Pizza night?"

The creases in Cas' forehead seemed to relax at the mere idea. "Good call."

Dean watched him go into the office and went for the stairs.

"Thanks," Jack said inside the room.

"I hope this isn't all too scary," said Cas.

Dean smiled absently, listening to him. He was using his dad voice. The voice that was impossibly kind, but so deadpan that it couldn't be defined any other way except a little strange and a little funny.

"It's alright," said Jack, although there was a quiver in his voice. There was the sound of feet shuffling on the floor.

Dean's smile faded a little.

Inside the room:

"I don't want to cause any trouble."

"It's fine, Jack. I'll sort things out with Dean. He'll understand."

"What if he doesn't?"

"He's capable of change. He just needs to see you for who you are."

"Okay."

There was silence then, and Dean felt his feet carry him downstairs before he was found eavesdropping.

"What's up?" Claire asked when he entered the living room. She took a look at his face and added, in her _trying-not-to-sound-like-I-care_ tone, "You look upset."

Dean handed her his credit card. "We're having pizza," he said. "Can you order." It didn't come out a question.

"What do you want?" Claire asked. He slumped onto the couch beside her, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I want," he said, taking a deep breath and releasing it. "I want extra cheese."

Claire grabbed her phone and made the order. Then she took a long look at him and leaned back on the sofa. "Marriage problems?"

Dean shrugged.

"Seriously? Marriage problems?"

"I don't trust this kid, and he knows it," said Dean. "He's convinced that he's on the right."

Claire shifted to face him, crossing her legs, and tapped her fingers on her knee a little nervously. "Do you think that maybe you're jumping to conclusions too fast?" she asked. "I mean, have you actually talked to him?"

"I have." Dean's shoulders straightened defensively. "He told me to change."

Claire looked him up and down, eyebrows furrowing. "I think what you're wearing is fine."

Dean shook his head. "Something happened while he was away that changed his mind."

"About what?"

"Monsters?" Dean sighed. "I don't know. He was being vague. And I wasn't listening. He said something about me not being too old to change, and how monsters aren't all bad. He said I was wrong about something, and that monsters can change for the better."

Claire took that in with a creased forehead. "I don't think he was asking you to change."

"He literally asked me to change, though."

"Maybe he thought he was asking that," she said. "While he was actually trying to tell you that some things might not be what they seem, and he was asking for your compassion in seeing that."

Dean nodded like he understood what she was saying.

"Do you think he wants to give up the fight?" Claire asked.

"I don't know." Dean leaned his head on the sofa's backrest and watched the ceiling.

What if he did? What if Cas did think that the Devil's spawn could somehow have a shred of good in it? If he was asking Dean to change – he couldn't do that. If Claire was right, and Cas was asking for his understanding, or his compassion – he didn't know if he could do it. But what if Cas was just asking him to trust him?

Could he do that?

Eventually, he heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Dean felt a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.

"Are you okay?" Cas asked.

Claire took one look at Dean's face, and knew to speak up before he could.

"Let's find something to watch until the food gets here." she picked up the remote, turned the TV on and then passed it to Dean.

"Pick something. Jack, let's start setting the table."

Jack followed her to the kitchen, and Dean started browsing. He wasn't really paying attention to what he was doing. Jack showed up in the living room after a moment with forks and knives in his hands.

"What are you bringing cutlery for?" Claire asked him.

"Dinner."

"We're having pizza," she said.

"Does... Pizza not need cutlery?"

"Have you never had pizza before?" Claire asked. Dean put the remote on the couch and got up. Cas was eyeing him. He looked away.

"Sorry," Jack was saying. "I'll take them back."

"I'll do it," said Claire, and reached out for the silverware in his hands, but he moved it just in time to slash a cut through her palm.

It was bad. Blood filled her palm and started dripping on the floor, and Dean stepped forward, and Cas saw him and stepped forward too, and Claire stared at her hand with a nauseated expression. It all lasted a couple of seconds before Jack reached out instinctively and touched her hand, and before anyone could process anything, the cut was gone.

"I'm sorry," said Jack weakly into the silence that followed. "I didn't..."

Claire stared at him, gripping her hand. He was looking at Cas helplessly. Cas was watching Dean.

So they had a refugee Nephilim in their living room. A Devil's spawn who didn't know what pizza was. A Devil's spawn who apologized for not knowing what pizza was. And everyone was silent, waiting for Dean to be the asshole to tell him he had to go.

Dean turned to Jack, and cleared his throat. "Jack, listen," he started.

And then the doorbell rang.

"Pizza," Dean called. "Pizza." He walked to the door rigidly and accepted two boxes, placing them on the coffee table. Claire returned from the kitchen with her hand clean of remaining blood. She tugged Jack onto the sofa silently.

Cas came up to him and started saying, "I can explain-" but Dean cut him off.

"I understand," he said, and it took him some effort to mean it, but he did.

He sat down of the sofa with Cas to his one side and Claire to the other. Claire grabbed the remote, and Dean opened one of the pizza boxes and handed Cas a slice with a soft, mildly-reluctant smile.

After almost twenty years of being together, he was going to have to accept that there were still things between him and Cas it might take more time to talk about. There were still hardships, and there was still conflict. But there was also still love. And it was worth it.

"What's this?" Claire asked. On the screen was the summary to a show called "Supernatural."

"Killing monsters?" Jack read.

"Looks lame," said Dean.

"Play it," said Cas.

She pressed play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends.  
To whoever has made it to this point, I couldn't be more grateful. Seven months and four days ago, I posted the first chapter and wrote at the beginning of it that this fic means a lot to me. A year and a day ago I started writing it. A month and four days ago, I finished writing it. It means just as much to me today as it did all the way along.  
It's a thousand miles away from perfect, but I gave it absolutely all the love I had in me. And you made it - and everything I have written and will write - worth it.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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